


What Friends Do

by agirlsname



Series: Friends [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Christmas, Cuddling, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Infidelity, Jealous Sherlock, John has a horrible gf at one point, M/M, More Cuddling, Movie Nights, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Platonic Bedsharing, Post-Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Season 1 canon divergence, Sherlock gets his revenge on her, Slow Burn, Virgin Sherlock, and hand-holding, and hugging, except it's not very platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-08 21:15:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12873186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname
Summary: Sherlock has never had a friend before. He didn't even know he wanted one until John moved into 221B. But John quickly becomes essential to him, and their friendship turns more and more intimate.It's all platonic, of course. All perfectly normal for close friends.





	1. A Thrilling Time

**Author's Note:**

> Finally some fluff! In my previous fics I have worked through the fall and Mary and the suicide mission, and it was time to write something set before any of that happened. And, just for the record, this is a universe where none of it WILL happen. My boys are safe here. (Well. Except for pining and stuff. They'll get over it.)
> 
> Thank you [thinkhappythoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkhappythoughts) for all the sadistic revenge suggestions – I sincerely hope we will stay on good terms! And thank you [englandwouldfalljohn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn) for the last-minute adjective and the loving support. I should also acknowledge the unknown person who ranted about fortune tellers on their website, sounding exactly like Sherlock. That piece of weird research really payed off.
> 
> A huge thank you to Akhenaten's Mummy, my beloved beta and dear friend. She lives as far from me as humanly possible, but going through her markup is like having a conversation with her, and I always have the biggest smile on my face when I edit, even as I'm swearing over the damn prepositions. This time, she brought Sherlock's voice to me and left me stunned. The best beta that ever existed, I am quite sure of it.
> 
> And last of all, a heartfelt thank you to Sherlock. My poor boy has to go through all my sorrows, but he always gets his happy ending so I'd say we're even. This time he revenged me in an indecently satisfying way, for which I am forever thankful.
> 
> The whole story is finished, and will be posted chapter by chapter as my beta and I go through them!

Sherlock Holmes is surprised by his own behaviour. This in itself is confusing, since he generally keeps firm control of every aspect of his existence.

A new phenomenon has presented itself, so unpredictable that Sherlock can hardly take his eyes off it. He normally sees through everything, he can handle any turn of events with an unflinching face and a gracefully swishing coat. But this is unexpected. This he underestimated, and what's more is he suspects he will do it again.

The phenomenon is concealed in an unassuming jumper and goes by the name John Watson.

John Watson. Doctor Watson, Captain Watson. John.

It suits him. He is not merely _called_ John Watson; he _is_ John Watson. Sherlock has found a John Watson.

That is the last thing he ever expected to happen in his lifetime.

They are sitting in a dowdy restaurant at one a.m. (there are seven more guests and they are all insignificant). Their small table is laid with two plates of food (dim sum) and a candle; Sherlock is not sure how any of it got there, a fact that should alarm him a great deal more than it does. He is usually at his sharpest just after a good case, high on adrenalin and, if he had to name it, _joy_ , and no detail slips him by. Tonight, however, he seems to have deleted it all in favour of the John Watson sitting across from him. He cannot afford to miss anything.

John eats with a calm and friendly smile. His fingers are perfectly steady around fork and knife and they still have gunpowder on them. The traitorously unremarkable surface makes the gleam in his eyes even more intriguing.

Sherlock waits for John to furrow his brow at something Sherlock says, or fails to say. To call him a freak. But John keeps laughing, and he did follow Sherlock across the city to save him from a serial killer, and he told him he is _amazing_ and _extraordinary_ (twice in a row) and _brilliant_ and _fantastic_ , and then he told him he is an _idiot_ with the softest voice, and Sherlock cannot help laughing when he does.

In fact, it may be John's laughter that makes Sherlock so at ease that he loses his careful control over his own behaviour. Fascinated and confused he feels himself tilt his head in a way that accentuates the length of his neck. He knows the candlelight will do marvellous things to his cheekbones at this angle; he uses this very angle when he needs to get information or favours out of witnesses and other idiots, but always calculated, always in control. He has no idea why he does it now, and what's even stranger is he cannot seem to stop. He tries to at one point, but soon he notices that he has instead leaned forward over the table, looking intently into John's eyes while speaking, making his voice low and smooth.

Sherlock's tongue darts out to wet his lips at the same time as a waitress approaches. When she puts a small plate with two fortune cookies on the table between them, Sherlock jerks back as if caught in the act of… something.

John's lips take on a new kind of smile as he picks up one of the cookies and fiddles with it. Sherlock reflexively makes more room on the shelf in his mind palace that he has already dedicated to John's smiles. At this rate, he will probably need to renovate to make room for them all. This smile is a secretive, amused one, a smile of something shared, an inside joke no one else would get.

They have an inside joke already.

“Tell me your prediction, then”, John teases.

Sherlock snorts and waves his hand dismissively. “The business of fortune telling capitalises on taking advantage of people's feelings of confusion and desperation. Fortune tellers strive to give their clients a sense of relief and hope, benefiting from a few simple principles. One, a weak person doesn't make decisions easily, so the opportunity to have a prediction inform them what to do is tempting. Two, people do not like things too complicated; they don't like to learn, think, analyse and deal with variables. Three, they hope for an easy way to get advice, even if it is has no factual basis, and they feel better for a short moment because it is easy to consume.”

“Are you finished?” John inserts with luminous eyes. “However long you talk, it won't stop me from noticing you can't tell me what this cookie will say.”

“Not quite finished”, Sherlock says haughtily, surprised and a little thrown off-balance that John does not seem to be tired of him yet. He covers it up with a rant. “All those previous points lead to the most obvious one; people are stupid. Rather than doing something that would really matter, they do something nonsensical that they believe matters more. The short excitement of interpreting a prediction as something that's written for you specifically, is a good enough reason for foolish people to spend their money on cookies that taste like paper.”

John chuckles as he breaks the cookie in two. “Fine, you are clearly neither omniscient nor a fortune teller.” He smooths out the small piece of paper. “ _A thrilling time awaits you_ ”, he reads out loud.

“Well”, Sherlock sniffs. “I certainly could have told you that.” He glances at John, noticing too late how his own eyes sparkle and the corner of his mouth strains upwards, giving his words an extra hint of a meaning he had not meant to put there.

John only smiles like a sun.

“Your turn”, he says, handing Sherlock the other cookie.

Sherlock breaks it open, glances at the piece of paper and feels his face twist in disgust. He almost wants to hide it from John, but John perceives his reaction quickly and leans forward over the table to read it. (His hair smells like night air, sweat and something new, unfamiliar ( _John_ ).) Then he throws his head back and laughs so hard he cries. Sherlock indignantly looks between John and the cookie in his hands:

_The greatest danger could be your stupidity._

“This one was supposed to be yours, obviously”, Sherlock says, which only has John laughing harder. Sherlock cannot help it; he starts chuckling. The sound of it blends rather beautifully with John's high-pitched laughter.

When their laughter has subsided the air between them is liquid. The conversation is easy, and words keep falling out of Sherlock's mouth of their own accord. Only after they've left him does he hear the possible double interpretations of them, the innuendos he certainly did not fabricate himself.

Or did he?

The more he tries to watch his words, the more embarrassing they get, and he follows them up by a kind of laughter he did not even know he could produce. He cringes when he hears it; it is even lower, even smoother than when he purposely makes it seductive.

 _Seductive._ The word pops up in Sherlock's brain and he is instantly horrified. Is this _flirting_?

He tries to direct his attention to the food in front of him. (Dim sum.) John watches him as he puts the fork into his mouth, and Sherlock feels his lips do something not strictly necessary when the fork slips back out. He has forgotten how he normally chews, and John seems interested in this not-normal way of processing the food in his mouth. Sherlock's thumb comes up to brush away sauce from the corner of his own lip. This is not for the sake of the show, he reasons with himself, he really had some sauce there and could hardly leave it at that. John smiles at him, still not put off even though this is starting to get obscene.

John is relaxed. Even when Sherlock finds himself blushing at his own accidental joke, John seems to be at ease. Sherlock narrows his eyes. Earlier tonight, John was careful to let Sherlock know that he was absolutely in no way coming onto him. Sherlock assumed that he was either an immensely closeted bisexual, or a very confident heterosexual, although the latter seems unlikely given John's reaction at the implication of a flirt between them. Perhaps he is calmed by Sherlock's story about being married to his work, and thus finds it safe to sit with a man and a candle in the middle of the night, doing improper things with forks and eyes, without sending him into a sexual identity crisis.

Because John does all these things as well. Every single thing. (Pupils dilated, colourful cheeks, tongue wetting lips, and again, and again.) They are both leaning over the table now, eyes fixed and mouths straining in breathless smiles. Sherlock cannot help it, but John seems to not even notice it.

How far can he take this?

The thought flashes through his brain and he immediately backs away from it before it becomes a challenge. No. He has the work. He is not looking for anything. Not even with a handsome soldier who saved his life within the first thirty-three hours of their acquaintance.

No harm in continuing to laugh together, however. No harm in allowing eyes to sparkle. No harm in playing just a tiny, tiny bit with the tension hovering between them. It feels almost as dangerous as the game he played with the cabbie earlier, and it makes Sherlock feel just as alive.

Interesting.

***

Sherlock has never had a flatmate who puts up with his whims. He has never had an assistant who works _with_ him. He has never had a friend.

It soon becomes clear that John Watson has presented him with all three of these things. He lets Sherlock experiment in the kitchen and keep severed ears in the fridge. He asks Sherlock the right questions at crime scenes to help him think, and has Sherlock's back when chasing after criminals. And he laughs when he meets Sherlock's eyes as if he cannot help himself. Sherlock can't, either.

Those things are much too important to risk.

Because now all of a sudden, Sherlock knows he _needs_ all those things. Presumably has needed them all along, but he does not dwell on that since the thought makes him feel heavy. What's important is he needs them now.

So he keeps ignoring the peculiar tension between them, letting it settle into something domestic and safe.

And how he enjoys this domesticity and safety. He is amazed by how not-boring it is to watch crap telly with John. He pretends to mind since he enjoys bickering with John, just as John pretends to mind the severed ears. John lets Sherlock whine and scream indignant deductions at the telly, with a small smile on his expressive face (this is his I'm-home-and-relaxed-and-content-with-life smile, number sixteen on the shelf). Sherlock has no idea why, but he is not inclined to argue.

He wants to label it friendship. The more time he spends with John, the more certain he becomes that he got this right. They are friends now. John wants to be friends.

The first weeks Sherlock keeps waiting for John to run away. But he sees John look at him (his eyes sparkle, his mouth is twisted in one of the twenty smiles Sherlock has catalogued so far); the fondness is written on John's face as plain as day. No, John is not going anywhere, an idiot can see it.

And there it is again, right in the middle of the domesticity and safety; that sparkle.

It never really goes away, even when there is no adrenalin involved. Sherlock starts to suspect he got that one wrong; it was not flirting, after all. He is ready to admit that is an area where his personal experience is non-existent. He has never before shared these long, loaded stares with someone, never giggled together at the most inopportune times, never bickered fondly over nothing just to talk to each other. So he wouldn't know.

Maybe that is what friends do. His personal experience is non-existent there as well.

***

“Come on, John!”

The cold rain is cutting his face, the wind is whipping through his carefully styled curls. His coat is whirling behind him in a dramatic manner, blending into the night and he loves it. He loves himself as the detective dashing through London with his meticulous suits and his cheekbones, he loves the wind tumbling through his lungs. He loves the feeling of being almost transparent, becoming a part of the storm, and yet being so exceptionally alive with hot blood furiously pulsing through every limb. He loves the steady footsteps hammering behind him, loves how he can trust them always to be there without ever having to look.

“Come on!” he yells anyway, just because he likes to remind himself that they are two.

He rushes through the streets as well as through his mind palace. He smiles when the correct information is provided and increases his speed, hearing John swear behind him and follow his pace. Sherlock abruptly comes to a halt, catching John in his arms as he crashes into Sherlock. He draws John into a deep doorway, presses him against the broad frame. (The home of five dogs and one man, compulsive shopper.) He steps in close, covering John with his large coat, holding absolutely still.

He can hear the other footsteps now, echoing closer and closer. John's chest is heaving against Sherlock's, he is panting loudly from the run. Sherlock grabs the back of John's head without thinking, pushing his face into Sherlock's shoulder to muffle the sounds. He lowers his own head and rests his lips against John's soaked hair (silky soft, shampoo smell from two days ago is gone, now only rain and John), breathing as quietly as he can.

The murderer passes them, still jogging. Sherlock snakes his hand in between the wall and John's back, lifting the hem of his jacket until his fingers touch the cold metal of the gun. (John's lower back is sticky with sweat.) He yanks the gun out of John's trousers, lowering his hand to where John's is waiting for him.

His hand slides over Sherlock's (the rain on his hand is cold, his skin is burning hot) when they transfer the gun between them.

“Ready?” Sherlock grunts into his hair.

John nods into his shoulder.

They throw themselves onto the street, running side by side.

***

“You're bleeding like hell.”

“That's not a very professional way to put it, Doctor Watson.”

“I'm not a doctor right now.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, right now I'm your exhausted flatmate and angry friend who needs you to stop taking risks like that.”

“You are always my doctor. Why are you angry?”

“Because you seem determined to contribute to your severed ears experiment with one of your own!”

“Not a bad idea, actually. You should have let him cut it off.”

“Yeah, but then you would lose your super hearing skills and no longer be the world's best consulting detective.”

“Yes, I would, I'm the only one there is.”

“Just… sit down and I'll go get my med kit.”

Sherlock contemplates not sitting down, but he feels woozy so he takes a seat on a kitchen chair. His skin is still soaked, cold and hot (rain and quite a bit of blood).

When John reappears with his kit he has slipped into proper doctor mode (calm face, disarming set of shoulders, precise movements). Sherlock adores the way he transforms ever so slightly just by holding medical equipment, probably without even noticing. He sits down on the other chair, turning his attention to Sherlock's right ear.

Nothing hurts. The chase is glowing in Sherlock's chest, and he is still riding on the deductions that raced through him an hour ago; accompanied by no less than three _amazing_ 's and one _brilliant_ , and then two _idio_ _t_ 's for good measure (all delivered with smile number one, the Sherlock-that's-brilliant smile).

John seems to be doing sutures. The only part of him Sherlock can properly see from his position is his right knee, covered by drenched jeans. This knee is working perfectly, running with Sherlock through the London streets as though it has never done anything else. Sherlock is proud of that leg. He takes credit for that leg. If there is any part of John that is a little bit his as well, it may be that leg.

He reaches out and rests his hand against the knee (damp fabric warmed up by hot skin). John seems not to notice.

Maybe all of this is his, he thinks dizzily; at this point, John's whole body is practically an extension of his own.

Sherlock closes his eyes. He is almost dozing off. The points of contact are what keep him in place (the hard seat under him, the rough fabric under his hand, John's gentle hands touching the side of his head).

John mutters quietly to himself when he finishes. He strokes Sherlock's hair away from the ear, inspecting his work.

“It should heal well. You were lucky.” His fingertips keep trailing absently through Sherlock's hair.

“Mmm”, Sherlock mumbles, his whole body liquid when slowing down after the case.

“Let's get you into bed.”

Sherlock's eyes stay closed when John's hands help him rise from the chair.

“Hey, watch where you're putting your feet”, John quietly encourages him, leading him gently with one hand on Sherlock's back and one on his elbow. Sherlock opens his eyes, blinking when they won't focus properly. (Hallway. John.)

John lifts the duvet to the side, guiding Sherlock to sit down. Sherlock's consciousness fades once more when John unbuttons his damp shirt, and then he probably removes his shoes and trousers as well because everything is warm and dry when Sherlock is under the duvet.

“Try to sleep on your left side tonight”, John says softly, and then Sherlock cannot hear anything else because his good ear is pressed into the pillow.

He feels John's hands brush through his hair once more before he falls asleep.

***

John becomes something like a piece of furniture in Sherlock's life. Sherlock has never had a human piece of furniture before, but then again, he has never before had someone who is there all the time. John blends into the rooms around Sherlock; a solid, familiar presence (just like their couch). John serves as an excellent place to put things Sherlock needs out of his hands; notes, clothes, lock-picking tools (just like their desk). And Sherlock finds his hands land on John whenever they pass each other; absent-minded touches on an elbow, lower back, chest (just like he also does with John's chair when he passes it to enter the kitchen).

It is possibly rude to compare a person to furniture. But John treats Sherlock the same way. They move around each other with such ease that they stop noticing it, unaware of the quiet dance they are always dancing. When someone intrudes, comes too close to them and throws their pattern off, Sherlock's world tilts unpleasantly and only then he realises that he and John have become a unit. In those moments, John looks uncomfortable and confused, and Sherlock knows he feels it too. They dance around one another inside a bubble, and no one else is welcome.

Sherlock never thought someone would come into his bubble to share it with him. He never thought he would invite someone in. But then, he did not know there was such a thing as a John Watson.

The thing with furniture is that one cannot remove a wardrobe from a room without leaving a huge, noticeable gap that steals attention. Sherlock is now put off when John is not there – at least when he peeks out of his mind palace for a moment. He has been deducing the crime scene for twenty minutes when he notices he is alone in the room. He swiftly looks around.

“John?”

John is not there, John has not been listening, which is shockingly rude since Sherlock has been speaking to him the whole time. He leaves the room, finding John and Lestrade with a paper cup of coffee each, talking to each other about something that is probably unbearably dull.

“John!” Sherlock yells across the room.

John shoots him a glance and continues his sentence, which is even more shocking because Sherlock is in fact speaking to him now.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock demands when he gets closer. “We are supposed to be investigating.”

John and Lestrade look at him.

“You obviously didn't need me”, John says mildly, “since I have been out here for the last fifteen minutes.”

“I was talking to you!” Sherlock snarls. “It's rude to leave without saying.”

John seems surprised at Sherlock's indignation, and his tone becomes a bit defensive. “I did say. You didn't hear me. You were rambling deductions so fast no one could even understand you.”

“I do not _ramble_ , John.”

“Well you didn't need me at the time, and Greg offered me coffee, so.”

“Who's _Greg_?” Sherlock asks in disgust, ignoring the raised brows of both John and Lestrade. Lestrade opens his mouth to say something, and Sherlock hurries to interrupt him because he has a lead, and John will think it was brilliant of him to deduce it. He grabs John's hand: “I _always_ need you, John!” he snaps.

He drags John along with him back to the crime scene, holding his hand in a firm grip.

“Look at the hem of that curtain”, he says as soon as they are back in place. “What do you see?”

John is slow to answer. He has a peculiar look on his face (soft and confused) and Sherlock does not have time for this, he has just been _brilliant_. He takes John through the crime scene, spouting out his deductions, gesturing with his free hand. John's questions, remarks and mere presence all lead Sherlock to the final deduction he failed to make before. When he darts out of the room, John's grip is still firm around his hand.

Only then does Sherlock realise why John's face did that thing. Sherlock gave him a _compliment_. He forgot to wrap it up in insults, did not even realise it was a compliment, because him needing John is a simple truth.

He glances at John, feels the secure warmth of his hand through the black leather of his glove, and thinks it may have been worth it.

***

It is remarkable how easy it is to take John's hand once he has become familiar with it. That one time was enough. Now Sherlock repeatedly takes John's hand to make him follow, to make him be there, to make him stay. It proves to be the most effective way to accomplish those things, and he is quite happy that he accidentally discovered it.

John soon starts to practice it as well. When he drags Sherlock away from an encounter where he thinks Sherlock has insulted the other person enough, or when they get themselves together during the few seconds before a chase or a fight, or when he wants Sherlock to know he is there; there is the warm firmness of his small hand. When summer approaches it gets even better, and if Sherlock had known how wonderful it would be to feel John's skin directly against his, he would have stopped wearing gloves much earlier.

It becomes second nature. Sherlock cannot even remember a time when John's hand did not reside in his. He forgets to let go of it, he does not become aware of it until they walk through a busy street in daylight and an old man glares at them when they pass.

John did not notice, fortunately – they are on a case and Sherlock cannot spare John for a sexual identity crisis. Sherlock's own thoughts start spinning, however. It has not occurred to him that this hand-holding thing is something couples do. Can _only_ couples do it? How annoying that he does not know. Are he and John in a relationship, and he has failed to understand it? If so, does _John_ already know?

Data, he needs data.

They finish the case sloppily – everyone is annoyed with Sherlock, but he does not have time. He needs to get rid of John so he can carry out observations. John glances at him frequently during their cab ride home. Sherlock ignores him, and when they get home he forces himself out of his coat for a bit, waiting until John has settled in his chair with a cup of tea. Then Sherlock wordlessly re-dresses.

“Where are you going?” John asks (concerned).

“Out”, Sherlock snaps out.

“Everything alright?”

“Yes.” He throws the scarf around his neck even though the summer afternoon is still too warm for it. He has to leave before the crowd on the streets thins out. John says something more, but Sherlock is already on the first step of the stairs.

He walks along the busiest streets, scanning the crowd and analysing every pair he sees. He finds a significant number of straight couples, holding hands more often than not. Of the three gay couples he sees, only one is holding hands. His confusion grows; he was initially right about this social rule, then, this is a customary practice for intimate partners. He and John are not intimate, however. Not in that way.

Admittedly in many ways. But not that one.

And then he sees them. Two women walking over a pedestrian crossing, hand in hand. (One college student, breaking up with her boyfriend soon; one shop assistant, lives in Paris.) He studies them intensely for as long as they are within his seeing range, but he is sure; they are not together. They are merely friends, friends who hold hands.

Not statistically likely. But occasionally occurring.

Satisfied with the outcome of his observations, Sherlock takes a cab to Bart's instead of going back home. He has already left the whole episode in a forgotten corner of his mind palace (he may delete it eventually, but it could prove useful) and wants to check up on the experiment on frozen sheep blood he has been running for the past days.

When he looks up from his microscope, he is surprised at the darkness outside the window. He looks at his phone (oh). One a.m., and eight missed calls from John. This may be a bit not good.

***

He climbs the seventeen steps of 221 Baker Street. The door opens before him, revealing a pale-looking John. He grabs hold of Sherlock's shoulders, holds him at an arm's length and scans his face. Then he pulls Sherlock in, closing his arms around him. Sherlock automatically hugs him back (this is a hug, a proper hug, the first one they have shared).

John pulls back. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Bart's. Experiment.”

“I called you a hundred times!”

“Eight.”

“What?”

“Got carried away. Sorry.”

Sherlock frowns as he takes in John's visible worry. They are not together _all_ the time. Sherlock fails to see what the fuss is about.

“I was worried”, John says needlessly. (He has made four (no, five) cups of tea. He has drunk one cup of coffee. The telly has been switched on and off multiple times.)

“There was no need.”

“You were acting… I don't know. Mycroft has told me- I thought maybe…”

Ah. Mycroft has warned him of the signs; John thought it was a danger night. Sherlock is genuinely perplexed by this. Does John know him so poorly? Of course, Sherlock is immensely practised in the art of concealment. But excluding John along with everyone else is purely accidental.

Sherlock looks into John's eyes. They are wide and blue, and they look back at him unwaveringly. No one meets his eyes like that. No one _else_.

“John”, he says gravely, but he can feel a softness on his own face. “I am quite all right.”

When he says it, he realises how very true it is. When did he last have a danger night, anyway? Must have been months. John has never seen one; that must have been why he thought this was it.

And then, wondrously, a new smile appears on John's face. Sherlock does not yet know how to classify it. (Number twenty-one, for now.) It is small and warm and secret, somehow. Sherlock has never seen John give this smile to anyone else (an intimate smile, then).

John touches his hand, and Sherlock immediately takes hold of him. He smiles back, vaguely wondering what his own smile looks like. It feels much like John's smile looks, so he imagines they are mirrors at this moment. He swipes his thumb over the back of John's hand, and John's thumb strokes him back.

This is what friends do, Sherlock thinks. He quite enjoys it.

***

Initially, they embrace when one of them has been in danger. Then they start embracing when both have been in danger; when they finish a mad chase together and are giggling with excitement and the dissipation of fear. They fall into each other's arms, breathless, clumsy, sweaty.

When Sherlock emerges from his room in the morning, fresh from the shower and dressed for a trip to the lab at Bart's, John rises from his chair to give him a goodbye-hug. When he gets home, John is at the door offering a hello-hug.

Eventually Sherlock starts embracing John for no particular reason. If John is standing there and his hands are empty, that is reason enough. Sometimes his hands are not empty, but Sherlock deems the items he holds unnecessary and embraces him anyway.

He calculates their embracing rate. Sherlock initiates seventy-three percent of the hugs – that's fine, though, because John never pushes him away. Their highest embracing score during one day is nine (not counting the almost-hugs when they pass each other by and let their hands brush over one another, or all the times they hold hands).

John's scent is now wonderfully familiar to Sherlock. He cannot seem to get enough of it.

***

When the evenings turn chilly and darkness gradually swallows the hours of light, John insists on a movie night. He says that is what people do during autumn nights (although Sherlock is unsure how that argument is supposed to convince him), and he thinks it is unacceptable that Sherlock has not seen James Bond (although Sherlock has been perfectly fine for thirty-three years without it). Sherlock puts on a show as usual, complaining over John's poor taste as well as his uneducated way of calling the beginning of August _autumn_ , while he settles on the couch, waiting for John to join him. John only smiles (number sixteen, the home smile) and hums quietly while he washes the dishes.

“I'm bored already John”, Sherlock grumbles. “Come here so we can start.”

“You could help, you know”, John answers cheerfully.

“Boring”, Sherlock sighs and flops down on his back, draping an arm dramatically over his eyes. John does not acknowledge him, and Sherlock quickly gets bored with this position, but if he changed it directly it would ruin the effect. So he remains. The plates clatter in John's hands and Sherlock closes his eyes against his arm.

He starts when he feels hands in his hair. “Up”, John gently orders, his fingers pressing against Sherlock's skull. Sherlock does not understand what he wants, it is just possible that he may have fallen asleep ever so briefly (they have just finished a case that stretched over three days and Sherlock did not sleep once, not that he needs it), but he cannot confess his confusion to John because then John will know and be smug (he has nagged Sherlock about sleeping throughout the case), plus Sherlock's pose of boredom will never be as convincing again if he fell asleep in it. It will seem as though he did not suffer at all.

So Sherlock simply lifts his head, and John slips in under it, sitting down on the cushion with a contented sigh. Sherlock inches the arm still covering his eyes to the side a bit, peering up at John (settling into a comfortable position).

“You can put your head down now”, John says with a short chuckle.

Sherlock carefully lowers his head into John's lap, not quite daring to relax all the way and trust John's thighs with the full weight of his skull. He is on the verge of asking John if he is not going to complain about Sherlock literally taking up the whole sofa, but at that moment John's palm lands on Sherlock's crown, and Sherlock swallows his comment.

“Ready to start?” John asks.

“If we must”, Sherlock answers, trying to sound above it all, but somehow managing to sound indecently content instead.

“You'll fall asleep”, John says, smiling his teasing smile (number eight).

“I don't just _fall asleep_ , don't be stupid John.”

As he hoped, this earns him a burst of high-pitched giggles from John, before he leans forward to grab the remote with his free hand. Sherlock turns on his side to be able to see the telly, and John puts his other hand on top of Sherlock's shoulder. During the opening credits, Sherlock slowly lets his neck muscles relax, his head sinking solidly against John's legs.

Earlier in the day, Sherlock had contemplated making an effort to follow this movie. It seems important to John, and may in fact be a key to understanding John better. But even after the first three minutes he willingly admits that the plans seem to have changed themselves. There is no way the pointless running around on the screen will hold his attention, when both John's hands are warm and solid on his body.

He has never seen John from this angle. He has never been this close to John's thighs, which is fascinating. (The fabric of his jeans is soft and worn (approximately three years old), and it smells strongly of John.)

After eight minutes and thirty-one seconds, the fingers of John's right hand slowly thread into his hair. Sherlock's eyes close by themselves, the pleasure of it stronger than he would have expected, if he had expected it at all, which he had not (this seems to heighten the pleasure even further). John lets the curls slide through his fingers, and Sherlock hears himself heave a sigh. At that, John's left hand gives his shoulder a squeeze, and his right fingertips start making patterns against Sherlock's scalp.

Sherlock feels his face become lax, his breathing languid and deep, audible. Sometimes it almost carries his voice by mistake, a hum so deep he feels it in his chest more than he hears it. He wonders if John hears it too; probably not, because as far as Sherlock can recall, John is currently engrossed in a movie, although he cannot recall which one.

 _Oxytocin_ , he thinks before his mind becomes quiet.

***

When he wakes, it is pitch-black outside the window. The red lamp in the corner is still shining, but the telly is off. His cheek (feels weird, all trapped and rough… oh) is still resting on top of John's leg. John's right hand is buried deep in his curls, lying still. His left hand has travelled from Sherlock's shoulder to his chest.

Sherlock carefully turns his head to peer behind him. John is slumped against the back of the sofa, tilted to the left so his head can rest on the pillow he has propped up against the wall. The position looks highly uncomfortable, but John is sound asleep.

Sherlock grabs the hand resting on his chest, pulling it to his face. He gently peels the hand open, putting his nose and mouth into it so they brush against John's palm. “John”, he murmurs into the skin.

John stirs, groaning softly, and slides his hand from Sherlock's face to rest against the side of his neck instead.

“You fell asleep”, Sherlock says.

“So did you”, John answers, slurring sleepily. He yawns, and it ends with a contented sigh. “At least I watched the ending first.”

“I deduced the ending during the first three minutes.”

“Well, you could have stayed awake to keep me company at least.”

“I was still here”, Sherlock points out. “Am I not company when I'm asleep?”

John snorts. “You are, actually. You talk in your sleep.”

Sherlock turns his head to look at John, horrified. “I do not.” John's eyes are only half open, but the mischievous glimmer in them still shows. Sherlock narrows his eyes. “You're lying.”

“You'll never know, will you?”

“Yes, I will. I can tell when you're lying.”

“How sure are you?”

“This is ridiculous.”

John giggles and lets his eyes close, smile number sixteen (I'm-home-and-relaxed-and-content-with-life) presenting a sleepy version of itself. (Sherlock is getting quite fond of that one.) John is in no way upset that Sherlock fell asleep, he deduces. In fact, he quite enjoyed stroking Sherlock's hair for the duration of the film.

That is what the evidence points to. John did not stop until he fell asleep himself.

“You should have woken me”, Sherlock says, turning his head back to the side. “We can't sleep here all night.”

“You needed it”, John says.

“But your shoulder will hurt from sleeping in that position.”

There is a silence, then John's left hand gives Sherlock's neck a short caress.

“That's thoughtful of you.”

“Piss off”, Sherlock mutters and John giggles.

***

Apparently, there are more Bond films. And apparently, one needs to watch them all. Sherlock protests wildly, that's how happy he is when he learns how many films there are.

He does not plan enough in preparation for the second one, though, so he has no time to resume his pose draped over the sofa like a blanket, and when he arrives John is already sitting on it. Sherlock briefly considers simply lying down in John's lap, but he is not sure; is that really what friends do? Last time it could be called an accident, unplanned. Most certainly there are rules about these kind of things, and it is quite obvious that he understands none of them (except for the hand-holding, which he now knows is fine). Besides, John sits almost in the middle, leaving Sherlock no room to sprawl.

Sherlock sits down beside him, drawing his knees up under his chin and wrapping his arms around them. John offers him smile number two (the polite one that says I'm-friendly-and-mean-you-no-harm; the one from when he told Sherlock that _it's fine, by the way_ if Sherlock had a boyfriend).

“Ready?” John asks. Sherlock wonders what this habit is about. Why must he always ask Sherlock this before they start the film, when he can see perfectly clearly that Sherlock is present and available?

“Yes”, Sherlock answers, eyes lingering on John's face even as John turns his gaze to the screen.

He remains awake this time. This is actually not a bad way to pass waking time, he realises. He deduces the actors to John's great amusement. John is a fan but he did not know these things, because it seems the press has not picked up on everything that went on during the filming, because the press is stupid.

They are sitting quite close to each other. They were not this close at the beginning of the film. (When did that happen?)

Sherlock glances at John's hands, entwined in his lap. His thumb is stroking the back of the other hand, probably subconsciously, and Sherlock's eyes narrow.

He should be able to just do it. They are friends. There is nothing romantic or sexual about this, because they have done it before. They are physically close to each other all the time. There is no reason whatsoever why Sherlock would feel nervous and unsure, because this is what friends do.

Sherlock inches a little closer to John, still hugging his legs to his chest, and tips himself until he leans against John's side with his head resting on John's shoulder. John's arm immediately comes up and drapes itself comfortably over his shoulders.

(See? Friends do this.)

***

On the fifth Bond night, Sherlock understands John's repeated question about his state of readiness before the film starts. It dawns on him when he sits down beside John, not yet touching. Although he knows the night will likely end with extensive touching, statistically speaking (one hundred percent so far), he feels uneasy about how separated they are at the moment. He wants to do something to feel that John is there, that they are doing this together, not simply sharing a sofa out of convenience and for lack of something better to do.

He looks at John and gives him a soft bump with his shoulder. “Let's start.”

John bumps him back, and there is smile number twenty-one again with its mysterious glow. Sherlock still does not know what it is, which may be why he is so unbearably fond of it.

“Let's.”

***

“So, you and John?”

Sherlock does not look up from his microscope. He is in the lab at Bart's, John is out getting coffee, and Molly should not expect an answer to questions that make no sense.

After a minute, she clears her throat awkwardly. “So, you and John?” she repeats, as if he had not heard the question, which he wishes he had not.

“What?” he asks the slide under the microscope light.

“You're together?”

“What makes you say that?” Sherlock changes the slide.

“Well, I've always suspected…” She makes that nervous laugh. “But, well, I saw how you held hands when you came here.”

“Hardly a proof of anything”, Sherlock enlightens her.

“Okay… but then, well, the way he touched your hair when he told you he'd go get coffee.”

Sherlock does not answer. He had not even noticed that.

“Anyway”, Molly says, a little breathlessly. “Congratulations, then.”

“We are not together”, Sherlock says and changes the slide again.

“Really?” Molly sounds surprised.

“This is what friends do, Molly”, Sherlock says, slightly condescendingly. She has friends, she should know this.

“That's… I suppose it could be.”

She is silent for a while.

“Do you want to be together with him, though?” Her voice is lower now.

“Why do you ask?” He suspects the answer to this one (her motive is neither curiosity nor thirst for gossip).

“Are you gay?”

He looks up then. She stares back at him without flinching, quietly demanding an answer.

“Yes”, he says, holding her gaze.

She gives an almost imperceptible sigh (a combination of disappointment and relief).

“Thank you”, she says.

***

That evening, Sherlock arrives at the sofa to a John who is lying down. Sherlock frowns, then estimates that the depth of the couch is enough, and lowers himself down in front of John with his back pressed against John's torso.

This is new, but it feels more natural than anything. John's body is familiar to him now, with its smell and its temperature and its pattern of movement. John's arm comes around to fold itself around Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock feels his face take on a helpless smile that he is happy John cannot see from behind him. It feels like smile twenty-one again, only on his own face.

The smile stays on his face during the whole film. He even forgets to complain about the transparent plot. John breathes softly and evenly into his hair, the warm air brushing down his neck at every exhalation. (John is solid. John is warm. John.)

When the film ends, neither of them moves. They are quiet, comfortably so. The way John's whole body folds around Sherlock's allows him to feel every nuance of John's slow dozing off, until he is asleep.

The smile has not left Sherlock's face when he falls asleep, too.

***

The body behind him shifts, and he instinctively grabs hold of the arm across his chest to keep it in place. He grunts quietly, unsatisfied with waking up, because sleeping in John's arms turns out to be a marvellous thing.

“We're not supposed to fall asleep here”, John murmurs into his hair.

“Let's move to a bed, then”, Sherlock answers, still half-asleep.

He hears John softly clear his throat behind him, but before he can say anything, Sherlock forces himself to stand up.

“Come on”, he says and grabs John's hand. He would rather have just stayed on the sofa, but again, it will hurt John's shoulder. He is impatient about getting into bed; he does not at all like how all the warmth suddenly disappeared.

John meets his eyes for a moment. Sherlock peers back at him, confused. John is thinking, he can tell, but he cannot seem to care enough to deduce what, he only cares about fulfilling this stupid transport. John silently rises then, letting Sherlock guide him by the hand until they have reached Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock ungracefully lowers himself onto it. (The sheets are cool.)

“John”, he says into the pillow.

John carefully lies down behind Sherlock, taking the exact same position as before on the sofa. Sherlock hums in appreciation.

“Good night, Sherlock”, John whispers and nuzzles his nose briefly into Sherlock's curls.

***

It is not until Sherlock wakes up in the morning that it strikes him that his invitation may have been a bit unexpected. In his sleep-hazy brain he had not understood John's hesitation, but they have never slept together before. But John had accepted, in the end. Without needing much in the way of persuasion. So it must be fine.

Sherlock has turned in his sleep, and is now curled up against John's front with his face buried in John's chest. John's arms are tight around his back. Even their legs are tangled together. Sherlock is surprised neither of them has moved away during the night; he would have thought of himself as a person who needs space while sleeping. But of course, he wouldn't know. This feels nice, in any case.

Sherlock presses himself even closer to John, enjoying the feel of John's expanding and deflating chest. One of John's hands comes up to tangle itself in his hair, and John settles into their new position, giving one of Sherlock's legs a squeeze with his own.

“Good morning John”, Sherlock murmurs, his voice impossibly deep with sleep.

“Mmm, morning”, John mumbles, twitching his fingers in Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock moves his head to look at John, wondering if there is a smile this early upon John's awakening, and if so, which type. There is none, but John's face has a soft expression Sherlock has not seen before.

When Sherlock's head moves, their noses accidentally bump, that's how close they are. John peers down at him from a barely opened eye, then he lets it close again without moving. The tip of Sherlock's nose is still resting against John's. He likes the feel of it. The intimacy of being this close to John's beautiful face. Sherlock lets his own eyes close, breathing in sync with John. Neither of them moves for twenty-one minutes.

***

John keeps sleeping in his bed. Sherlock normally does not lie in his bed as much as he does now that John is in it. He actually has a regular sleep schedule now, and he finds it ridiculous. During the day, he sometimes decides not to get into bed that evening just because John does. But then John will go and brush his teeth, and the warmth under a shared duvet is too big a temptation for Sherlock.

The whole thing turns into a script silently agreed on, though never acknowledged. John goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth, which is the signal for Sherlock to change into pyjamas or, if he is already wearing it, get rid of his dressing gown. John goes into Sherlock's bedroom and closes the curtains while Sherlock brushes his teeth. When he comes into the bedroom, John is usually lying down already.

He will lie down beside John, with approximately half a metre of mattress between them. John will turn out the light. Their hands will find each other, and Sherlock will pull John's to his face, pressing his nose to the back of it and inhaling the scent of John. John will smile number twenty-one through the darkness. They will fall asleep.

They always wake up tangled together.

If they have nothing planned for the day, they can stay there for hours in the morning, drifting in and out of sleep. John usually caresses Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock strokes John's back and the warm, sensitive skin of his neck.

John's nose is touching him almost constantly on those mornings. It is buried in his hair, or slowly stroking his cheek or forehead, or nuzzling against his own nose. Sherlock does the same to John, breathing in the different areas of his skin. They rarely speak, and Sherlock begins to think of their noses as their preferred way of communication. They say _Good morning_ and _Thank you for being here_ and _I love you (but not in that way_ _)_.

Sometimes Sherlock's lips brush some part of John's skin. It is only inevitable, given how close the lips are to the nose. And sometimes he feels John's lips as well, accidentally brushing his skin or (very discreetly, in a way that he may not mean for Sherlock to notice) pressing against his crown like a kiss.

John clearly likes Sherlock's hair. Sherlock likes John's nose. No, he _loves_ John's nose. And he loves John's face when he has just woken up, soft and vulnerable and uncoordinated. And he loves John's face when he is asleep as well, because John is truly beautiful and Sherlock only realises the extent of it when John sleeps. That is the only time Sherlock can look at it without being interrupted or having to try to hide it.

He does not know for sure how long one can politely stare at other people. So he does it primarily when John sleeps.

He wonders at what point during the night they reach for each other, how it happens, and one night he stays awake to find out. John falls asleep with Sherlock's hand in his, as usual, and after thirty-two minutes he turns on his side, bringing his face closer to their hands. He lies like that for almost two hours, before he sighs deeply in his sleep and his other arm reaches forward. His hand lands on Sherlock's stomach, and John inches himself closer so that his arm can rest there.

Sherlock finds himself strangely moved by this. His breathing becomes slightly forced and he stares at John's face. He knew something like this must happen every night, and John touches him all the time during the day. But to see him reach for Sherlock even in his sleep…

Sherlock carefully rolls onto his side, coming closer to John. The results of this study will of course be biased, since Sherlock cannot imitate his own sleeping behaviour while awake, but given that he clutches John every morning, it is safe to assume he behaves similarly to John. He puts his own hand at John's waist.

There is still a gap between them, and it remains for another hour before John moans softly and inches closer to Sherlock, tightening his arm around Sherlock's back.

Sherlock closes his eyes with his face in John's hair. He is careful to stay awake all night, however, not wanting to miss anything. He is surprised at how stimulating it is to simply lie there for hours with a sleeping John.

At 5.36 a.m., John mumbles his name and folds his legs around Sherlock's. Sherlock is glad his eyes are already closed, because then it is easier to pretend they have not become wet.

***

Sherlock is shaking in the back of the cab. (His coat is heavy with water, his hair is soaked, his skin is ice.) He tries to look calm and collected, because Sherlock Holmes is supposed to be calm and collected, but he knows it is all in vain because his desperate grip on John's hand gives him away. John is also ice cold, wet and shaking. Sherlock's fingers hurt from crushing John's as hard as he possibly can.

It is over, the case is closed. All is well and John is not hurt. It was so close this time, though. If the police had waited another two and a half seconds-

John throws money at the cabbie and pulls violently on Sherlock's hand to make him follow out of the car. They both grab their keys in shaking hands, the cold night air doing nothing to help their fine motor ability. They inefficiently work at the lock without being able to decide which one of them should do it. In the end, the door opens from the inside.

“Hello, boys, I thought I heard you.” Mrs Hudson is smiling, because she does not understand that the world very nearly ended half an hour ago. “Oh, you're soaked!” she exclaims. “It's not raining. Where have you been?”

“Leave us alone”, Sherlock snaps when he pushes past her and walks stiffly up the stairs. He hears John speak softly to her, making up for Sherlock's rudeness. It is unbearable, really, because he needs to be alone with John, but the world won't stop intruding and existing.

When John slowly reaches the top of the stairs, Sherlock smashes the door shut behind him and hauls him into his arms. John's arms lock around him like chains, keeping him in place. His fingers grip fruitlessly at the wet wool of Sherlock's coat, and Sherlock burrows his face at the base of John's damp neck. He breathes into John's skin, hoping to warm it up, make it stop feeling like the skin of a corpse.

“You're shaking”, John says in a weak voice.

“So are you”, Sherlock mumbles into John's skin, not sure the words are distinguishable.

“You need a hot shower, you're too cold.”

“So are you.”

“Get into the shower, now.” John's voice changes, getting into captain mode.

“No.”

“Doctor's orders.”

“No.”

“Damnit, Sherlock, you almost fucking died on me, don't be such a stubborn git!”

Sherlock draws his head back at that, staring into John's eyes. (Blue and fierce.) Sherlock has forgotten to acknowledge the perfectly sound analysis John just gave; Sherlock almost died, too.

“I need you alive”, John says in a low voice, his gaze burning into Sherlock's. “Now go take a hot shower.”

They stand still for several long moments. They still have their arms around one another and their faces are so very close. The air between them is charged as if it were magnetic. Sherlock cannot look away.

“If you borrow Mrs Hudson's shower meanwhile”, he says at last.

“I'll meet you in bed”, John says and lets him go.

Sherlock undresses in a haze, almost embarrassed by John's admission that they share a bed. Stupid. They do it every night. It is no secret. Well, of course no one knows about it, but it is no secret between the two of them. Obviously. That would be ridiculous.

The lukewarm water burns him. He gradually increases the heat until he no longer shakes. Then he hurriedly dries himself, puts on (heavenly dry) pyjamas and enters the bedroom.

John, bless him, is already under the covers. Sherlock lies down beside him, immediately closing him in his arms. Screw the script, he cannot wait until the morning to hold John. John's sigh of immense relief tells him John would not have waited, either.

They both have their foreheads against the other's shoulder, warming each other with their exhalations. Each heart beats furiously against the other's ribcage, as if wanting to make sure the other is there. They are still breathing shallowly, their hands clutch the fabric covering the back of the other. Sherlock impatiently presses John closer using his legs, and John complies.

Eventually, the chill in Sherlock's bones has dissipated, making room for John's safe heat. Their hearts have calmed, their breathing is even. The adrenalin has burned itself away, making room for exhaustion.

Sherlock withdraws his head to rest it on the pillow. John's nose meets his, the tip of it slowly caressing the bone of Sherlock's. Sherlock's hands relax and let go of the fabric of John's t-shirt, instead starting to softly stroke his back. John's hand gently moves to Sherlock's neck, and Sherlock inhales while he nuzzles at John's nose.

John (or maybe Sherlock, or maybe both) tilts his head another inch, and their dry lips are touching. When their mouths get into contact, both of them still completely. Their lips are unmoving, not at all kissing, only lying against one another.

John's lips are so easy to catalogue with the sensitive skin on Sherlock's. He had no idea other people's lips feel so soft. Perhaps it is only John's.

Sherlock breathes. John stays in place until he falls asleep.


	2. Glass Baubles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plan was fluff, just fluff. This just sort of... happened. Happy December, everyone...

“Sherlock, let's take a break.”

“There's something I'm missing”, Sherlock says, ignoring John. “What is it?”

“I don't know. But you'll probably work it out when you've nourished that brain of yours with some food. Come on, we've been stuck at this for hours now. It won't just-”

Sherlock gasps. His eyes slowly widen, his mouth a perfect O. “Oh, John”, he breathes. “Stuck, he was _stuck_.”

John frowns. “Who? Where?”

“The victim, of course”, Sherlock says, still frozen in place but speaking rapidly. “That's why the time frame doesn't make sense – John _Watson_ , that's _it_!”

Sherlock leaps up from his chair and crashes into John's torso, wrapping his arms firmly around his waist. John gives a yelp (surprised) and puts his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. Instinctively following the rush in his blood, Sherlock squeezes John more tightly and tries to whirl him around. John actually raises his feet from the floor then, letting Sherlock spin him several circles while he lets out an involuntary (and quite pleased) giggle.

Sherlock puts him down on the floor again, pausing for a fraction of a second to give John a radiant smile before whirling out of the office they have been sitting in.

“Hey, where are you going?” Lestrade calls after him when he comes dashing by.

“Back to the crime scene!” Sherlock yells over his shoulder.

“Without John?”

“Of course not without-” Sherlock starts, annoyed, then he notices John has not followed him out of the office. And then he is annoyed he cut himself off like that because it will make him look stupid. He is just about to throw an insult at Lestrade to make him forget it, when he hears John yell from the office.

“I am not gay!”

Sherlock's brain trips over itself in an unpleasant way, making him forget what he was about to do or say. The scene from a minute ago replays itself in his head, with new details helpfully added (Donovan sitting at the other end of the conference table, making a repugnant sound when Sherlock lifts John in his arms; a short laugh of disbelief and triumph).

John emerges through the door. His schooled facial lines do not fool Sherlock for a second, and probably nobody else either. (Angry.)

Sherlock wishes he had stopped observing at _angry_ , but there is always one more deduction than he expected. _Anger_ is fine, because Donovan is a provocative idiot. _Embarrassment_ is quite something else. So is _shame_.

John stops two metres before Sherlock, eyeing his frozen face questioningly. “Are we leaving or what?”

This is ridiculous. Sherlock Holmes can certainly turn his brain back on and order it to work. “Crime scene”, he snaps and turns. Not once does he look over his shoulder to see that John is following.

He spins through the case with ice-cold determination. Nobody understands what he is doing, and for once John does not try to coax him into communicating. Sherlock expects John will eventually let himself be left behind, but he keeps following as he always does – only not close enough to touch. Eventually Sherlock purposely tries to shake John off, because instead of John's hands, there is now an unfamiliar awkwardness constantly touching his skin. It has never been like this with John.

How was he supposed to know where the line was? (How could he be so stupid that he crossed it?)

The second the perpetrator is caught (ex-husband, jealousy; tedious), Sherlock goes to hail a cab. When he gets into the seat he presses himself against the window, not watching John get in. The air in the small space between them is an ugly thing to behold.

“Sherlock”, John says. “That truly was extraordinary.”

( _Three._ ) That was the third today. But it comes without its attached smile.

Sherlock does not acknowledge it. He looks out the window, following the silly Christmas lights with his eyes, occupying himself with trying to remember today's date. He is fairly certain December is close to a month away, which means the decorations are there for no good reason. Stupid, really.

He faintly starts to wonder if he is being childish. John and he are not a couple. He already knew this. Neither does he want to be.

John is not gay – also not news. Although he _is_ bisexual, but that's another matter. He is technically not gay.

Sherlock is, though. John said that's all fine, but those words become hollow in the light of his shame at being seen touching Sherlock.

Not that it matters. Sherlock is never going to pursue romance, anyway. He has the work. It does not matter where his attraction is directed.

He stares out the window and tries not to admit it, but still he knows that it does matter. It's who he is.

The touch to his hand is unexpected. (John's hand is determined and firm). John's thumb swipes once over the back of Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock carefully turns his head the slightest bit, only enough to see John out of the corner of his eye. John's other hand rests on top of his thigh, clenching and unclenching (trying to shake off the tremor).He is looking out of his window, and his jaw is set. (Upset, defiant.) Sherlock turns back to his own window, slowly and silently exhaling.

Everything is not ruined, then. He has not scared John into stopping. John knows the implications of this, but he still wants to do it. That's what he is telling Sherlock – he will never do it with words, never acknowledge this Thing that they are doing, but his hand is promising him: _This is fine, I'm still here, we're friends and this is what we do._

Only not at Scotland Yard. Only between the two of them. Only if they close the curtains.

Sherlock tries to be relieved.

***

John holds to the promise his hand made in the cab. Things stay almost the way they were. John keeps sleeping in Sherlock's bed, and he keeps cuddling him in the mornings or even in the evenings. He keeps embracing him, if not at crime scenes. Sometimes he even slips his hand into Sherlock's when they are out, as if he cannot help it.

Sherlock almost forgets the whole episode with the Not Gay. He wants to delete it. But he is afraid of what might transpire if he deletes John's reaction at the implication of a romance between them.

***

One week after the incident, John emerges into the living room and something is different. Sherlock eyes him over the edge of his magazine (new ugly shirt, old ugly suit never seen before, strong aftershave) and frowns.

“Who are you trying to impress?”

John gives a long-suffering sigh. “I have a date.”

Sherlock's frown turns into a scowl and he lowers the paper. “A _date_?” He had not seen that coming. How had he not seen that coming?

“It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun?” John says, trying to make Sherlock's inexperience into a joke that falls flat.

“You don't like anyone you know”, Sherlock points out, putting his magazine back up. This is a hateful turn of events. He does not yet know why, but he is most certain that it is.

“I like _you_ ”, John contradicts him, and Sherlock is happy the paper is already covering his face. John awkwardly clears his throat. “Er, I didn't mean… I just… well, you know you're my best friend”, he ends in a lame voice.

Sherlock pretends to have stopped listening. (He did not know he was John's best friend.)

(Running water in the bathroom, silent curses when John searches for his wallet (it's in the cutlery tray, but Sherlock won't tell him (he finds it anyway)), rustling fabric.) After seven minutes, John leaves the flat without giving Sherlock a hug.

Sherlock stays on the sofa all evening. He is bored and annoyed and there is nothing he feels like doing. When John's usual bedtime comes and goes, his indignation grows. John can hardly intend to have sex on the first date, and so he will come home and sleep in Sherlock's bed as usual. Sherlock refuses to perform only his half of their bedtime ritual.

(Why does John suddenly feel the need to pursue a romantic relationship?) Sherlock immediately dismisses the question in his mind, intuition telling him he does not really want the answer.

(Who is this person, anyway?) This one he definitely does not want an answer to. It is obviously a female person, and that is quite enough information.

He should help John out if this. (Why should he?) Well, he cannot spare John to a female, because it will certainly interfere with the work. And the work is Sherlock's spouse, so he needs to protect it. That is perfectly logical. He should find out where John is and go there with the pretence of a case. He is confident in his ability to get John out of the unfortunate situation within a maximum of four minutes.

For some reason, he cannot bring himself to do it. John is Not Gay, and Sherlock is, and John is unpredictable and impossible to understand, and Sherlock cannot risk the tip of John's nose for anything.

John comes home at 1.14 a.m. in a good mood.

“Hey, are you still awake?” he says, walks into the bathroom and forgets to greet Sherlock with a hand in his hair.

Sherlock listens to John's bedtime routine, making deductions from the sounds. (The date went well. He bragged about his doctor skills and she was impressed. He thinks she is out of his league. She kissed him goodnight.)

Sherlock stomps into the bedroom, lying down without bothering with his teeth. He pretends to be asleep when John enters. There is no touching before John falls asleep, and when he does, Sherlock opens his eyes and stares at him for hours.

He kissed the female with those lips. Now she also knows how soft they are.

Sherlock does not allow himself to sleep until John reaches for him. In the morning, he wakes up in John's arms to a hand slowly caressing his hair.

***

There is a second date. Sherlock's impulse control snaps and he follows John there. He has a believable case excuse and makes a scene at the restaurant. John is irritated but he buys it, leaving his date within two-and-a-half minutes. Sherlock is smug but as John spends the whole case texting, he almost regrets the whole thing.

Now he knows what she looks like, and isn't that hateful.

She is tall and tedious. She looks exactly like someone who does not understand John. She probably cannot distinguish between John's smiles – probably has not even seen them all. It is unlikely that John has given her smile number one (Sherlock-that's-brilliant). Or number sixteen (I'm-home-and-relaxed-and-content-with-life). The thought that she may have seen number twenty-one makes Sherlock's guts feel as if they are all in the wrong places.

Sherlock pretends not to remember her name. He refuses to address her with it even in his mind. It is a tiresome name anyway.

For every time John meets her, his hands land more seldom on Sherlock. He starts looking uncomfortable after their hugs, and he gets out of bed faster in the mornings. When he comes home one night with his body language screaming of sexual satiation (first intercourse, missionary), he goes upstairs to spend the rest of the night in his own bed.

***

By unspoken agreement, they cannot touch any more. Sherlock does not understand why, but it seems necessary to John's relationship with the female somehow. He has a theory that John does not need the physical closeness now that he has the female, but that does not explain why their former closeness seems outright forbidden to recreate or acknowledge.

“John?” Sherlock calls as he closes the lid of John's laptop, finally finished with his perfume spreadsheet. He half expects a cup of cold tea to stand beside him, but the spot is as empty as the living room.

He blinks. The room is, firstly, _very_ empty, empty in the way that tells him John is not in 221B at all. Secondly, little light bulbs have appeared by the mirror, windows and door frames. Sherlock frowns; Mrs Hudson must have been here to put it up while he was working.

It is still too long before Christmas for those lights to be bloody everywhere, in Sherlock's reasoned opinion.

He sighs, walks over to the sofa and flops down onto it. He had not realised his secret anticipation for this Christmas, not until John told him he was going to spend it at Harry's. He impulsively asked if Sherlock wanted to join, wearing that unassuming friendly smile (number five), and a second later the regret put a strain to the smile when he remembered he had also invited the female. Sherlock declined in a rude manner so John wouldn't understand Sherlock saw the regret.

Now Christmas will be just as intolerable as always, if not worse. And that is just unfair, isn't it. Even things that were tolerable before – Sherlock's bed, for example – are now appalling, just because John has abandoned them.

For some reason, the female and Sherlock cannot seem to exist at the same time. Sherlock closes his eyes and presses his hands together under his chin. He feels his own pulse through his palms, he feels the warmth building between them, he feels the slight resistance the pressure from the other hand provides. It makes his transport feel grounded and safe, and so his mind can flow.

He and John are just friends. They just did what friends do. It should not correlate with any sexual relationships John may have, but for some reason, it seems to.

The only plausible explanation for the sudden cessation of physical proximity is the romantic and sexual implications of such contact. Then it seems strange, however, that John engaged in it for several months, given how carefully he guards his heterosexuality.

Sherlock suddenly wishes he were less clever than he is, and was spared figuring this out. Or more clever, that would also do superbly, because then he might have realised this sooner. The only way John would allow himself such a relationship with another male is if he thought there was no threat in it whatsoever. He would never do it if he thought the male understood the implications, and he would never _ever_ do it if he thought the male was gay.

Hence, John must think Sherlock is asexual – which would be fine, if not for the fact that he also thinks Sherlock is an idiot. An innocent, precious idiot with no experience of human contact.

He stands correct on almost every notion. Sherlock is apparently an innocent _gay_ idiot with no experience of human contact.

Sherlock is sweaty with mortification and then he hears the front door open. Four feet stumble into the hall and giggle their way up the stairs. Every cell of Sherlock's body burns with contempt at how long it can take two people to ascend seventeen steps, when each is simultaneously trying to stick their tongues down the throat of the other. Luckily, they continue up to John's room without stopping in the living room. They also remember to close the door.

Sherlock read somewhere that a useful coping strategy when watching a horror movie is to cover the ears and hum a silly children's song. He has never used it, but he tries it now.

It does not help. His mind still compulsively feeds him images of John's hands (warm), John's cheeks (rough), John's nose (pointy), John's lips (softsoftsoft), and he pictures her intruding on all of it, taking what is not hers.

Sherlock is clever. He is the world's only consulting detective, he solves murders that puzzle everyone else, and this feeling raving inside his body is not difficult to define. (Jealousy.)

He stops humming in the middle of Incy Wincy Spider with a resigned sigh,reviews the evidence and makes a deduction, one he is endlessly unhappy with.

He is in love. How utterly inconvenient.

***

Once Sherlock knows, he cannot believe neither of them knew before.

He feels it in his own eyes. He stares all the time, and he sparkles at John as if he were happy, but the happiness is an illusion only staying for as long as John talks to him.

And everything he _did_. It embarrasses him now that he understands what it all means.

He has composed a ridiculous amount of music for the man, and he plays it over and over for a John who has no clue it is all his.

When he accidentally broke John's favourite mug, he secretly collected all the thirty-seven pieces and spent the whole night perched on a chair, gluing them together again. John never knew, because when the last tiny piece was in place and Sherlock allowed his sharp concentration to dissipate, he noticed how dizzy he felt and realised the glue he had been using contained toxins he would never put so close to John's lips. So he hid the mug under his bed and pretended not to care when John grumbled in the morning over having to use an inferior mug.

He learned the stupid solar system for John. And he did not even get the chance to tell him.

Sherlock sits on the edge of his bed, another mortifying secret in his hands. He opens the package that has just arrived, lifting out the brand-new phone he had intended as a Christmas present for John. The screen of Harry's old phone is cracked, but John insists on using it (mainly because he cannot afford to buy a new one, but Sherlock likes to think he also has sentimental reasons). This new phone Sherlock bought for him is of the highest quality.

He even ordered that engraving.

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. He might as well have added the three x:es at the end of it. How on earth did he not know?

The fact that John knows nothing of these things is a slim comfort, because Sherlock still did them. He devoted all those hours, all that money, all those efforts to John, limitlessly pouring his heart out without a second thought on what it meant. He was not even interested in getting anything back, _nothing_. He only wanted John to have his favourite mug in the morning. He only wanted to see him smile at Sherlock's knowledge about which celestial body orbits around which.

He needs to stop immediately. But this proves to be surprisingly difficult. The John music keeps escaping from his heart into his violin, and when he plays it the vibrations hurt his chest. He plays as he watches John cross the room and he feels pathetic and alone, even more so than he did pre-John and really _was_ both alone and pathetic.

He shuts down his compulsive need to please John, and tries to also shut down the even more compulsive need to be near him. But John is like a magnet for him. Sherlock draws himself closer without being able to help it, even though he knows it will only hurt him to succeed.

Standing close enough to touch, without reaching out. Noticing a whiff of John's scent and inhaling in secret.

Everything hurts now. Every move John makes fills Sherlock with an ache so severe he loses his voice.

So Baker Street becomes quiet.

Every evening when John goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth, it feels as though someone is picking through Sherlock's intestines with an ice cold salad set.John emerges from the bathroom and silently goes up the stairs. Sherlock hears him close the curtains, then lie down in his narrow bed. In the night, Sherlock hears him turn and wonders if he still reaches for him in his sleep.

Sherlock no longer finds a reason to use his bed and he has long ago deserted his ridiculous sleeping schedule. John does not even comment on it, as he did in the beginning. That would put them precariously close to a discussion of their previous bed-sharing, which John knows perfectly well is dangerous territory.

Because John knows that is something friends do not do.

At first, Sherlock wishes John felt the same. But then one day, their eyes meet across a crime scene and smile number twenty-one appears on John's face, and Sherlock has never seen that smile directed at the female person, and suddenly he knows what it is.

It is his I-love-you smile.

And that fact is in no way helpful, because John himself clearly does not know.

John seems happy.

Sherlock moves through his days as though time and space were made of water.

***

One week before Christmas, Sherlock finds John sitting perfectly still in his chair without a tea cup. He stares straight ahead, his face like stone. A thrill momentarily sparks through Sherlock, but he tamps it down with guilt and a more precise deduction. (They have not broken up (and he should not be happy if they had). But…)

“She has been unfaithful”, Sherlock says by way of greeting.

“Stop right there”, John says in an empty voice. “I don't want to talk about it.”

Sherlock remains in place, keeping his further deductions to himself. (She called him around three a.m. She was upset that she had snogged (no, had sex (unprotected intercourse, in fact)) with a male co-worker at the office Christmas party. She wanted to come clean to John immediately afterwards, effectively bereaving him of his sleep. John thanked her for it even though she is a selfish imbecile.)

Sherlock abruptly snatches his coat from the hanger and leaves the flat. He furiously walks the streets of London, actively hating all the Christmas trees and Santas and clumsy morons. More than once, his ice-cold stare and dramatic coat scare a child into clinging to the trouser legs of their stressed-out parents.

Sherlock would do anything for John. He would die to save him, and then he would do it again if possible. He would protect him, he would hold him close and every day he would marvel at being allowed to do so. Every day he would be aware that there will never be anyone like John, and that having him is the greatest privilege he could imagine for anyone on this planet.

She got him, the most beautiful and amazing man Sherlock has ever known. She is the one to have him, and she spoiled it.

Sherlock walks briskly, trying to outrun all the sentiment but it is no use. Eventually he arrives at St Bart's and barges into the lab.

“Let me into the freezer”, he demands.

“Oh, hello, Sherlock”, Molly greets him gleefully. (Wage discussions resulted in a significant pay rise.) “How's your day?”

“Yes, hello, wonderful. Now do oblige, I hate to repeat myself.”

She looks concerned then. “You don't look well.” He glares at her, and she adds: “You have no business in the freezer.”

Sherlock is happy she is no longer pining for him, but it is quite impractical at times, as she is now much more difficult to persuade.

“Yes I do”, he snaps. “I've hidden the corpse of a rat in there.”

She laughs, then the smile melts off her face. “What?” She puts her scalpel down. “You can't do that, Sherlock.”

“What was I supposed to do with it, then?”

She shakes her head but she does let him into the freezer. No one has noticed the rat, to Sherlock's grim satisfaction. He unceremoniously stuffs the plastic bag in his deep coat pocket.

“Where's John?” Molly asks. The name twists like a knife in his stomach.

He pretends not to have heard, rising his eyebrows at her and throwing out a “Good day” with his best sociopath impression.

Too late; she has already seen it. “Call me if you need anything else”, she tells him, looking serious.

He eyes her sceptically. “What could I need from you?”

“I don't know.” A mischievous glint lights in her eyes. “A lookout, maybe.”

He almost smiles, impressed by her deduction. He is quite happy indeed over this new kind of friendship between them.

When he arrives at Angelo's he stomps right into the kitchen. Angelo greets him with a warm exclamation and arms spread open (not intending to actually embrace Sherlock; it would contaminate his outfit).

“A table for two, yes?”

Sherlock once again forces his face not to show the flinch and he asks for a bag of prawns, preferably old ones. Angelo hesitates (selective honesty; break-in is fine, food poisoning is not), but when Sherlock tells him it's for a case, Angelo fetches a bag from the cold-storage room.

“I was just going to throw these away, they're no good for eating-”

“Perfect”, Sherlock interrupts and snatches the bag from Angelo, putting it in his other pocket.

Picking the lock to the apartment is child's play. (The female is at her best friend's, crying and feeling sorry for herself.) Her cat is home, but it is not very good at guarding the grounds; it sleeps on the sofa and merely opens one eye when Sherlock enters.

He snaps on a pair of disposable gloves, empties the prawns into the sink and peels them with vehement efficiency. He throws the shells in the waste bin, which he is pleased to see almost full (the empty package of an emergency contraceptive pill confirms his earlier deduction). When he enters the living room the cat ignores him; maybe it is indulging in a good sulk. In that case, Sherlock decides, he should by no means bother it, so he empties the waste bin onto the rug and kicks it around himself.

The peeled prawns go behind the stove, one by one. He uses more of them than he initially intended, because the systematic vandalism gives him unexpectedly great pleasure.

He saves the last prawns for the antique brass curtain poles, naturally. He is getting rather animated by then.

Next, he stops to scan the living room properly. He feels the corner of his mouth pull up (the scratch marks on the wallpaper, the Christmas tree). Using a garlic knife, he carefully replicates the claw marks, a soothingly creative process with the result being one of his proudest artworks. The female will have no choice but to cover it up with new wallpaper.

That will be a shame, though. He takes a picture to immortalise his art.

The Christmas tree has a rather prominent position in her home; it is an important tradition for her to make the tree as tastelessly extravagant as possible. It is as big as it could be and still fit under the ceiling, and covered in far too many glass baubles. “You have quite the temperament today”, Sherlock says reproachfully to the unimpressed cat as he grabs one of the branches and tugs.

When it crashes against the floor, glass clinking and shattering, the relief is so great that he immediately reaches for a plant pot on the windowsill and smashes that too. Something inside him breaks as well and he likes it, he likes to _see_ it and _hear_ it.

When all the plants are broken he is panting. He sniffs, wipes his forehead on his sleeve, straightens his coat and walks calmly into the bedroom. He stops at the threshold, glaring at the bed. He grabs the rat by the tail and carefully drags it across the sheets, making sure it leaves no trace behind. Then he drags it over the surfaces of the other rooms as well, for good measure. No one will ever know, but it _has_ been there, which is the important part.

He leaves the rat beside the cat, whose interest he has finally captured. “You can keep it”, he says, scratching the cat's crown.

The prawn shells are soaking water into the rug and it is already starting to smell. The fallen tree is enthroned on the decay like a defeated creature. When Sherlock leaves the flat, conscientiously locking the door for the cat (who is currently eating the rat), he can breathe again.

Female dealt with. That was the easy part; now John remains.

It is past six p.m. when he gets home. John is doing the dishes. Cold takeaway stands on the kitchen table for Sherlock. Sherlock comes to stand beside John, leaning against the sink.

John does not acknowledge his presence. His shoulders are hunched forward in a way Sherlock has never seen and his left hand is trembling. It hurts Sherlock more than it should; it is neither his shoulders nor his hand, and still it hurts. He wants to say something good, something kind, or something unkind if he thought John needed it to take his mind off it all. He does not know what the right words are, though, so finally he just asks:

“Have you broken up?”

John does not look up. “Can't you deduce it?”

He can. He just cannot believe his deduction.

***

John has never been cheated on before. It makes him feel less worthy. Sherlock sees it in his posture and wants to scream. In his mind he replays the sound of breaking pots and glass baubles. Maybe it helps a little.

Sherlock takes him on a case the next day. John had a crisis meeting scheduled with the female, but she apparently had to do a crisis cleaning of her flat, so he stays with Sherlock. John is mostly standing in the background with a blank, sleep-deprived face, but at least he follows.

Then he goes to the female. He is gone for twenty-seven hours, and when he comes back, he stinks of prawns. Sherlock frowns. That was not his intention.

Or maybe it was, a little bit.

(Their makeup sex was incredible, despite the smell. It is all beautiful now. Candles and candy hearts and staring into each other's eyes. This whole crisis only pulled them closer together. She had to make this one mistake to realise how important John is to her. Etcetera.)

Sherlock wants to tell John that he does not have to put up with that sorry bitch, because Sherlock loves him and he would never, _never_. But that does not matter because John chose that sorry bitch over Sherlock.

She comes over to Baker Street more often (the prawns behind the stove are still not located, neither are those in the curtain poles). Sherlock must be careful not to look at her for too long. Maybe, just maybe, he could have learned to live with not having John if he was with someone Sherlock respected. But to expect him to accept _this_ , that's plain insane.

At Christmas, John and Mrs Hudson invite people to 221B for a drink, and Sherlock wants to crawl out of his skin at their niceties and greetings and eyes sparkling with Christmas lights. The female is in a mood because she thinks Sherlock has insulted her, and John takes her side. Molly seems to take Sherlock's side, oddly enough, and that would feel nice, if not for his suspicion that she does it because she sees the heartbreak he is embarrassingly bad at hiding.

John gives Sherlock a bottle of fine wine and Sherlock gives John nothing. John is not offended, not even surprised, thinking this is only to be expected from his clueless friend. When he dresses to leave, he wears the new scarf he got from the female and Sherlock is nauseous.

John and the female are off to celebrate the remainder of Christmas at Harry's. Sherlock really has no idea why, since John hates Harry and loves Sherlock. Mrs Hudson pities him and tries to keep him company, but he soon succeeds in scaring her away. He turns off all the Christmas lights, gets his violin out and plays and plays and plays.

***

Sherlock is waiting for her to do it again.

He knows she will. He can see it in her every movement, every word. He is fairly certain this data is not biased. Not one hundred percent certain, however.

He does hope he is right. And sadly not for the sake of being right, no; he actually hopes she will be unfaithful to John again.

Sherlock, who saw John deflated like a balloon after the first time, who did what he could – although that was not much – to pick up the pieces, who calls himself John's best friend (or, more accurately, is called so by John himself), hopes his girlfriend will cheat again.

Possible reasons are a) he hates her and he wants it to be justified, b) he hates them together and he wants to see it crumble and burn, or c) he needs John to be single. He needs another chance.

Whichever explanation he finds for this, it does not make it prettier. But he never claimed to be a good person. No one is, really. Everyone is good and nice as long as they are safe and calm. Then their worlds tilt and their hearts break, and the ugliness in them shows. Sherlock is not the only one.

But he is possibly the worst friend walking the earth. He is possibly not qualified to be called a friend at all.

Would that make the whole thing easier, perhaps? If he just stopped calling himself John's friend?

When she finally does cheat again (and it happened sooner than even Sherlock had anticipated) it is extremely ungratifying. John's face looks irreversibly broken and he is unnervingly quiet when he returns home after having broken up with her, and Sherlock would do anything to make him stop looking like that.

Except letting him be with that stupid female, or any other female for that matter, or male. So he is still a selfish and bad friend. Lucky enough for him, John does not know it. He seems to not want to talk, but he stays in the living room instead of shutting himself in his bedroom, clutching a teacup and watching the snow silently fall outside. Sherlock plays the violin all evening in the hopes that it will have a calming effect on John.

It works.

It is slowly getting late. Sherlock sits at the kitchen table, staring into the microscope, making sure to switch petri dishes at regular intervals even though he does not need to, just to make sounds so John feels at home and safe. Eventually John rises from his chair, his movements stiff and awkward (unnecessarily slow). He takes a few hesitant steps to the middle of the room, stops, turns to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock uses all of his willpower not to look up. John thinks he is too occupied to notice that he is being watched, and even out of the corner of his eye Sherlock can read John's body language. (He wants to say something, but he does not know how, or he is gathering up the courage.) If Sherlock looks up too soon, John will flinch and go away, so Sherlock must wait him out.

John stares for sixty-seven seconds. It is torture.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock waits for one-two-three seconds. “Hmm?” he says absent-mindedly, finally looking up at John. He is looking as if he is about to lose his balance, looking small in a way John Watson should never look.

“Can I sleep in your bed tonight?”

Sherlock blows out an invisible breath. (It has been seventy-two days since the last time. They are not like that any more.)

(But they can be again. Can he still be that way?)

(Yes, he can. It will be fine. It will be like it always was. It is good, it is all fine.)

“Of course”, he says, schooling his voice into sounding bored, returning to his microscope.

John's body floods visibly with relief, and he walks into the bathroom, his movements softer now. Sherlock stares and stares at the petri dish, until John reappears in the doorway.

“You coming?”

That is really what he means, then; the two of them together in bed. Still the innocent friendly cuddler pretending it is all normal. Sherlock wants to grip him by the shoulders and ask him, _How can you not see?_ Instead he just says “yes” into the microscope, seeing John disappear into his bedroom, and he takes a deep breath before he rises to follow him.

John is exhaling softly (relief) when he settles under Sherlock's duvet. ( _You have missed this_. Sherlock wants to share his deduction. _Because you're in love with me._ )

But John is sad and he is Not Gay and he thinks about the female Sherlock tried to delete as soon as the breakup became known to him.

Sherlock silently gets into bed, leaving a generous space between them. John turns out the light and turns on his side.

“Do you know what day it is?” he quietly asks.

Sherlock freezes. He fights to keep on breathing so the hitch does not give him away. “Saturday.”

“Yeah.” John pauses. “January twenty-ninth.”

Sherlock hums non-committally, the sound contrasting his racing heart. John does not comment on it further, but he _knows_ , he _thought about it_ , even on this horrible day.

“Thank you for the violin”, John says even quieter after moments of silence.

“What do you mean?”

John sighs softly. “Don't do that.”

Sherlock is silent. He does not want to take away all the comfort he has carefully built around John, but he will not go so far as to admit he did it on purpose.

Finally John inches himself closer to Sherlock. Sherlock holds his breath and stays on his back when John curls up beside him, the only point of touch being his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder.

“Goodnight, Sherlock”, he breathes.

Sherlock chews on the inside of his lips, blinking to stave off the embarrassing sentiment. He has always thought anniversaries silly, but one year ago today, John limped into his life and quickly proceeded to save it. Maybe that is why Sherlock now orbits around him like the moon around the Earth; John pulled the trigger, gave Sherlock time he should not have had, and claimed that time as his own.

Sherlock lies perfectly still, listening to John's breathing become even. He wants to cry at the familiarity of it all (John's respiratory rate in different stages of sleep, the temperature between the covers when John is there, the smell of him). He is sure he should not enjoy it. John is sad, John needs a comforting friend.

But when John's arm comes to rest on Sherlock's stomach, he knows he cannot be that friend. He turns on the mattress, facing away. But John only shuffles closer, tightening his arm over Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock closes his eyes and cannot help relishing it. He feels like a thief, taking something John is not actually giving.

He slips out of bed before John wakes up in the morning.


	3. Smile Number Twenty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A treat for you today: last chapter plus the epilogue! Thanks to all who have followed the story and given me your love - I so hope you know it's mutual.

Cases.

Sherlock takes on everything that comes his way. He hates most of it, but it serves several purposes. John is absorbed by solving mysteries and does not have the opportunity to get depressed. He also feels empowered and alive when he works with Sherlock. It is the least Sherlock can do to make up for the fact that he wished this to happen.

But above all, cases severely interfere with their sleeping schedule. Sherlock never sleeps, and John knows there is no point in questioning this when there is work. John has no time to go to bed; he steals nap time here and there, sleeping on the sofa, in a cab, against the wall of the lab at Bart's. But never in bed, which means he does not have to choose which bed to sleep in, and Sherlock does not have to see his choice.

When the requests in Sherlock's inbox start to peter out and Sherlock becomes worried, a serial killer shows up like a belated birthday present and Lestrade begs them to help. The case is wonderful and goes on for several days (and the average number of _brilliant_ 's per day is two point nine, _extraordinary_ 's two, _amaz_ _ing_ 's zero point eight, and _idiot_ 's one point nine), and there is a spectacular finale with Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson working together as one.

They complete their ritual by Sherlock talking them out of giving statements to Lestrade, and John insisting they buy takeaway, and then they are in a cab on their way home with the food sitting on the seat between them.

The post-case glow immediately starts fading in Sherlock's chest. What now? He has kept John up for twenty-six hours. It is not quite John's limit, but it is close, and there is little chance he will be able to find a case before John wants to go to bed. He stares out the window, painfully aware of the man beside him.

John is also silent. Thoughtful. (He is thinking about her again. Now that the cases have subsided, he remembers he is screwed over.)

“Hey Sherlock?” he eventually says.

“Mmm?” Sherlock pretends to be deep in thought.

“Do you believe in justice?”

An unexpected question. A slightly stupid one, too, one he might have normally refused to acknowledge. But he finds he cannot refuse John even an answer to a random question right now.

“No”, he says without looking away from the window.

“But you're a detective”, John points out. “You literally work with bringing justice into the world.”

“Trying to bring it is quite something else than believing in it.”

“U-huh.” The tone of his reply makes Sherlock look at him. John looks as though he has tricked Sherlock into admitting something – he has that smile he has when he thinks Sherlock is secretly a kind human being (number nineteen).

“There is no such thing as justice”, Sherlock adds, trying to smooth it over.

“It's strange, though”, John says thoughtfully. “When she cheated the first time, her cat went crazy. I'm telling you, it's the laziest cat I've met, but the day after, it completely wrecked her apartment. Toppled the Christmas tree, broke all her plants, played with the rubbish, it even took in a rat and ate it on the couch.”

Sherlock has turned his gaze back to the window, ignoring John.

“That's justice, right there”, John goes on. “Almost like God intervened to punish her.”

Sherlock snorts (can't help it). “As if 'God' would care.”

“Yeah, I know. I wouldn't have guessed God's punishments would be so petty, either. I mean, prawn shells on the carpet?”

“Creative.” He risks a glance at John's face (too innocent). Sherlock fixes his gaze at the windscreen.

“You know the strangest thing, though?” John says. “I'm pretty sure I took out the bin the same evening we'd had the prawns. Didn't want it to smell.”

“Perhaps you intended to, but you obviously forgot. This would not be an unusual event, John.”

This is in fact not at all true. He feels John stare at his face, and he keeps his gaze stubbornly straight ahead.

“She thinks she hasn't found them all yet”, John finally says. “We texted yesterday, she wanted to return a shirt I've forgotten at her place. She told me the flat still stinks, even though she has washed the carpet twice.” He pauses before adding, almost as an afterthought: “Where are the prawns?”

Sherlock takes a slow, deep breath through his nose. He embeds his words in the exhalation: “In the curtain poles.”

He holds his breath in the following silence.

And then, by some miracle, John starts giggling.

Sherlock sends him a sharp glance to make sure his ears are not playing tricks with him, but no. John's face is bright with smile number three, the giggle one. The unrestrained mirth one. The one that makes Sherlock ache with joy over having put it there, and with stress over how ever he will be able to make it stay.

“In the curtain poles”, John repeats. “She'll have a hard time blaming that on the cat.”

“She will never find them”, Sherlock scoffs. “She will eventually be forced to move, and she will take the poles with her.”

Unexpectedly, this reinforces John's laughter, and now Sherlock has no choice but to join in. (John is not angry, John thinks he is funny.)

The best part is, Sherlock honestly thinks he is funny too. He has just never met anyone else who gets it. But John always does. That is the essence of a John Watson.

Sherlock feels light-headed and confused, and suddenly John has left the cab and cold air is filling the space and the cabbie is looking expectantly at Sherlock. He pays and enters the open door of 221 Baker Street.

John is already upstairs, opening cabinets and drawers in the kitchen. Sherlock treads silently on the steps. Almost imperceptibly, there is the sound of John humming absent-mindedly when he readies the takeaway for them. Afraid to break the spell, Sherlock watches from the doorway when John puts their plates on the coffee table and sits down on the sofa.

“Come and eat while it's warm”, he says.

Sherlock sits down beside him and takes his plate. The silence is comfortable now, not so much between them any more; more of a blanket wrapping around them, pulling them close together. Sherlock lets the adrenalin from the case settle into a pleasant buzzing, making him warm and alive. He glances at John at regular intervals and sees the same in him (the colour on his cheeks, his relaxed breathing). Now and then his mouth twists, but he schools his face and keeps eating. Finally he cannot seem to help it, and he starts giggling again.

“What?” Sherlock asks and tries to sound offended.

“It's just, there are so many things you could have done”, John says, voice unsteady with suppressed laughter. “ _I_ daydreamed about asking Mycroft to have her fired somehow, or make her believe her one night stand was HIV positive. You're so clever, if you wanted to revenge me there were so many possibilities. But you-”, the giggles break through, “you chose to break into her flat and create claw marks on her wall!”

Sherlock pauses in his eating, trying to hide his smile. “One of my more artistic efforts, I thought.”

John impulsively leans forward at that, bumping his forehead against Sherlock's. Sherlock was entirely unprepared for it, and the surprise makes him do an involuntarily delighted twist and let out an undignified giggle. When John draws back as quickly as he came, they smile helplessly at one another; two sets of number twenty-one.

“It's just so incredibly petty it's sweet”, John says in the most adoring voice.

Sherlock, as a general rule, does not blush. But judging by how unpleasantly warm his face is, he must conclude that he is doing it now. He feels his eyes sparkle and he cannot stop it, cannot even look away to hide it. (Sweet; _one_. The first one.)

He tries to shrug. “One must do something to stave off the boredom”, he says and knows it is the weakest explanation for this he could have made up.

He waits for John to ask the obvious question (why Sherlock did all this), but he does not. He just shakes his head, picking up his fork again. “You didn't even tell me.”

“I didn't think you'd approve.”

“Well I'm not gonna tell her about the prawns in the curtain pole”, John says and puts a piece of food in his mouth. After a few minutes of silent eating (and Sherlock silent staring), he adds: “Finish your food so we can go to bed before we pass out on the couch. I'm knackered.”

John goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Sherlock changes into pyjamas. John closes the curtains in Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock brushes his teeth. John lies in bed when Sherlock comes in. He lies down beside John, approximately half a metre of mattress between them. John turns out the light.

Sherlock's heart is beating so uncomfortably wildly.

John's hand finds his.

Sherlock almost does not dare to move. But this must be fine. They did this countless of times before. He was allowed to do just this.

He hopes John will not notice he is trembling when he pulls John's hand to his face, pressing his nose to the back of it and inhaling. He carefully looks up.

John is smiling number twenty-one through the darkness.

***

Sherlock did not notice falling asleep, but he slowly wakes up to a hand moving over his back. He lies still, making sure his breathing stays even and deep. John is pressed against his front and he is awake, his hand making idle patterns on the thin fabric of Sherlock's t-shirt.

Oxytocin. A lot of it. Otherwise Sherlock would have had ambiguous feelings about this; as it is, he only feels safe and content.

He breathes in deeply through his nose ( _John_ ), and his hand comes up to rest on John's overarm. The muscles playing beneath the skin when John's strokes on his back become more articulated.

John's face dips into Sherlock's curls. “Morning”, he murmurs.

“Mmm”, Sherlock answers (it sounds more like a moan than anything else).

John silently laughs at this, shaking his head so that the tip of his nose brushes against Sherlock's scalp. Sherlock presses himself a bit closer. He can feel John's heart beating and it is entirely calm.

Still only what friends do, then. At this point, Sherlock is amazed by John's skills of denial. He _knows_ what this is, or else he would not have stopped when the female came. And now he thinks he can just pick it up again – still without acknowledging anything of what is happening – without his heterosexuality endangered.

Sherlock should probably stop now. When the oxytocin subsides, the whole thing will probably hurt. But right now, he is so comfortable. Just a few seconds more.

John's hand moves to Sherlock's neck and he automatically lifts his head. And there is John's wondrous nose, waiting for him. Stroking his forehead, nuzzling his cheek, bumping his own.

It may be accidental (or it may be very deliberate) when Sherlock's head tilts the slightest bit, and John's lips are touching his.

Still not a kiss. They are perfectly still, no muscles in their lips are tensing – is that what differentiates this from a kiss? Sherlock does not know, but John keeps breathing evenly and he does not pull away, so it is not a kiss.

How far can he take this?

The instant the thought has crossed Sherlock's mind, he knows he will not be able to back away from it this time. His pulse elevates slightly, but John does not notice such things. He simply lies there, as close to Sherlock as he can allow himself to be, softly moving his fingertips over Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock keeps his eyes tightly closed when he carefully, almost imperceptibly activates the muscles in his lips. Then he relaxes again, breathing and waiting. No reaction. He does it again, pressing his lips against John's as softly as he only can, staying there for a little while longer. John keeps breathing and caressing him, his lips are still and pliant under Sherlock's.

Had he had more experience, or _any_ experience really, he would know what constitutes a kiss. Lips touching for three minutes straight apparently does not count as kissing. Is it the way it ends, perhaps, that little emphasis just before the participants pull away?

He tries it. Slowly, slowly his lips tense again, pursing gently onto John's, and the he lets go with a tiny sound of parting lips.

He opens his eyes a fraction to get a look at John's face. John still looks peaceful and morning-bright. Sherlock closes his eyes again, leaning in, pressing his mouth against John's, and ends it with a tiny emphasis.

There. That was a kiss. Nothing but a kiss.

And John has noticed. His hand has stilled at Sherlock's neck, but it is the only thing that gives him away. His face still shows no signs of distress, and once Sherlock has made sure of that, he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against John's for a bit. John's nose nudges his.

He still has not reached the limit, then.

Their mouths come together, innocent and motionless, and when Sherlock brushes his lips lightly back and forth over John's, John sighs through his nose and lets him. Sherlock is becoming heady on the scent at the point where John's nose becomes his cheek, and he helplessly buries his nose there, bringing their mouths harder together. John sighs once more.

Next time, Sherlock aims at John's bottom lip, giving it a light squeeze before pulling back.

John is lying perfectly still now, almost not breathing. Sherlock's lips part, a puff of warm air brushes through before he closes them around John's bottom lip.

John's pulse has spiked very quickly. (Possibly arousal, possibly fear. Probably both.)

Sherlock wets his lips before he does it again and oh, that increases the sensation. John releases a short puff of breath from his nose and pushes forward the slightest bit, meeting Sherlock. That tiny motion seems to somehow put a blockage in the middle of Sherlock's trachea, making it difficult to breathe. Not that he needs to, not when John is kissing him (this must be kissing).

God, he had no idea.

In the next brief pause, John's tongue peeks out to wet his lips in a rather irresistible way. Sherlock leans in again, even harder, and John's breathing is loud in the still morning air when he forms his lips after Sherlock's. Sherlock's limbs are gradually becoming liquid, folding themselves around John. He feels like a cuddly cat, which he finds somewhat ridiculous, but he also finds he does not know how to turn it off.

When he draws back again, John clears his throat (eyes still closed).

“Sherlock. This is not a good idea for an experiment.”

Sherlock exhales against John's face (a silent laughter). “It's not an experiment.”

John tries to be unresponsive for the next kiss, but ends up tilting his head so they fit better together. Each nerve sensor in Sherlock's lips is focused on picking up on every tiny movement of John's lips. The movements are subtle, bordering on imperceptible, but if he barely breathes he can feel them.

Their legs are tangled together as they always are in the morning. Sherlock pretends not to notice what is happening to the both of them in this area, but it is rather difficult to bring himself to care about anything other than that particular turn of events.

John lets go of his mouth. “Sherlock, we don't do this”, he says with an audible (and failing) effort to sound sure.

“Do we not?” Sherlock does not open his eyes. “But you have to admit, John, the lines are somewhat arbitrary.”

John pulls his head back until they can look at each other. His dazed confusion makes Sherlock smile.

“But this is something else, Sherlock. This is not what friends do.”

Sherlock stares into John's eyes, making sure he has John's full attention before he speaks. “Do you truly believe that I am unaware of that?”

The way John's world tilts is practically visible to the naked eye. (Every touch, every smile, every look replaying through John's head.)

“I-I thought…”

“You thought I was asexual.” He leaves out the _clueless_ part.

“Aren't you?”

Sherlock simply cannot resist it – call it a revenge for John being condescending and thinking he understands nothing. He knows perfectly well what he can do with his voice, and so he leans forward, placing his mouth near John's ear and makes his voice as dark and velvety as he can:

“No.”

He stays there to hide his smug grin when John's breathing momentarily stops. He can practically hear John's thoughts, that's how desperately John wishes their pelvises were not touching right now. It is no use trying to be discreet about it, too late to pull away.

John clears his throat (here it comes). “I am not gay.” He sounds strangled.

Sherlock pulls his head back again, meeting John's stubborn gaze. “I know”, he says blandly. “That would be me; you are bisexual.”

They stare at one another. Sherlock waits for it, and waits for it, and there – John's eyes flicker to his mouth and back again.

Sherlock keeps kissing him with his lips and with his breaths. John kisses back so delicately he can probably still pretend all of this happens outside his control (but his arm tightens around Sherlock's back, his legs are pulling Sherlock closer). The tingling warmth spreading through Sherlock gradually makes his kisses sloppier.

Under his lips, he feels John's will crumble. His hand moves restlessly through Sherlock's curls, his mouth meets Sherlock's without trying to hide it any more. A tiny sound comes from his throat and it freezes Sherlock in place, astonished by how the pleasant warmth in his groin turns needy on cue. He tries to get closer, although he is admittedly very close already, and John hisses (horror, pleasure) when Sherlock's thigh brushes the bulge in his pants.

He wonders what John tastes like. It is the only sense left to explore John with. The effort not to open his mouth is becoming considerable, and finally his lips part to let a hot exhalation escape. He tentatively touches his tongue to the seam of John's lips. John pulls back, gasping for air as if he nearly drowned.

“John”, Sherlock breathes, keeping his eyes closed. “Must you have your sexual identity crisis right this instant?” He brushes the tip of his nose across John's; such a familiar gesture, such an innocent thing. “Surely it can wait?” he whispers.

John is panting. “It's hard.”

Sherlock clears his throat discreetly. “Well. Yes”, he agrees.

There is a second of stillness, and then they break at the exact same time. John shakes with laughter in his arms and he rolls over onto his back, his eyes shut so tightly that all the happy wrinkles around them show. Sherlock collapses onto his chest, chuckling into it as he feels it bob up and down. John's hands clutch Sherlock's hair and shirt as if trying to hold on to sanity, he throws his head back and eventually he is laughing so hard he has audible trouble breathing.

Sherlock is always helpless in the face of these utterly ridiculous sounds from John. They sweep Sherlock away until his stomach hurts from laughing.

Eventually John lets go of him in order to wipe his eyes, and the last chuckles come shaking out of Sherlock's chest. He lifts his head and looks up at John, who has tilted his head down to meet his eyes. He is still smiling (number three, the giggle one). Sherlock waits, but John just looks at him, until finally Sherlock has to ask:

“Say it.”

John's eyes immediately sparkle with the teasing smile number eight. “Say what?”

“You know what.”

John's hand lands in his hair again, and his smile changes once more, from eight to twenty-one. “You're an idiot.”

And this is how this smile works: when one of them shows it, the other one answers with the same. The only answer to _I love you_ is _I love you_.

Sherlock pushes himself higher up on the bed, so he can see John's face better. He braces himself on an elbow beside John's head, places his free hand on John's shoulder and squeezes it gently.

“John, it's just me”, he says. John looks up at him with eyes open and bright. “Do you see? Our definitions, our identities, our inexperience – none of it matters. Don't think about all of that, just… think about me.”

John's face has turned impossibly soft, and the hand in Sherlock's hair slides down to caress his cheek. “Hello Sherlock”, he says, so gently it is almost a whisper.

Sherlock swallows with a dry throat and forces himself to hold John's gaze. When he speaks again his voice is a whisper; the seduction is gone from it, leaving only an honest question. “What do you want to do when you think about me?”

John licks his lips (involuntary) and holds his gaze for a second longer, then he brings Sherlock's face down. His nose is so tender, his touches are so loving, and even though Sherlock's toes curl with the urge to kiss him, this snuggling makes him feel so reverent he can barely breathe.

Sherlock's hand travels lightly over John's torso, John's lips part and his breath comes faster against Sherlock's face. He presses his lips against Sherlock's cheek, then the other one. The kisses are only slightly too long and weighty to be called chaste, and Sherlock keeps his eyes closed, revelling in the way his skin comes alive under John's lips. When he kisses Sherlock's eyelids, Sherlock hears himself let out a tiny sob.

His mouth seems to move of its own accord, seeking John's.

John keeps pressing kisses to Sherlock's mouth, with his hand flexing and relaxing in the chaos of Sherlock's morning hair. Sherlock tries to be passive, but when John pulls back between kisses Sherlock feels himself desperately follow.

His body is struggling to override his mind, and his mind gradually loses interest in interfering. His lips part and John whimpers, and Sherlock tries to keep himself from doing the same when he tastes John's lip. John's arms are tensing around Sherlock and he is breathing in short, hot puffs of breath straight into Sherlock's mouth.

It is better than any drug high he has ever been on. Had he known that was available in his own home in the form of _John's breaths_ , he would never have waited this long.

He realises too late that he is in way over his head.

The rushing urgency is overwhelming, taking control of his mouth, his hands, his pelvis. John is slowly, slowly pressing up into Sherlock's hip, one single movement so slow it is almost no movement at all. But it makes Sherlock dig his fingertips lightly into John's skin, tracing down his t-shirt-clad chest. John exhales heavily and Sherlock dives in deeper, seeking John's tongue.

( _Oh._ )

The groan escaping him almost drowns John's. John's hands grip his hair so tightly it would hurt to move, and Sherlock's fingers have become claws digging into John's hip. The soft tongue switches off his mind, reduces him to a pathetic puddle on top of John. In a rush of fear he breaks the kiss, dips his head to place his open mouth against John's throat. The skin under his lips vibrates with John's moan, and Sherlock's eyes close hard as he tastes it, before fumbling back up for John's mouth.

He tries to coax John's tongue into his mouth, but John is clinging to his last bit of self-control, refusing to oblige. Sherlock abruptly pulls back, lifting his hand off John.

John forces his eyes open, big and intense with confused hunger.

“It's fine, John”, Sherlock says, managing not to smile. “If you really don't want to, I'll stop.”

He shifts his weight, starting to slide off him.

“No”, John chokes out.

His legs capture one of Sherlock's, and Sherlock tries not to groan when he finds himself trapped against John's erection. It ends up a cut-off strangled sound, and before he has the time to take a breath, John's crushing mouth covers his. And then it is too late to breathe.

John is really kissing him now. Sherlock has no way of catching up with what his tongue is currently doing inside Sherlock's mouth, all he can do is hold on for dear life even if that certainly does not help.

John's nails are grazing Sherlock's bare back and the thin fabric of John's shirt is getting all tangled up and complicated. The skin of his stomach is wonderfully smooth, and there is a string of hair under his navel that turns out to be surprisingly enticing.

“Do we need these?” Sherlock murmurs raggedly, tugging at John's shirt. John rolls his head back and forth on the pillow, whether in agreement or in pleasure is hard to tell. Sherlock sits up briefly, removing his own shirt in one fluid motion and then helping John out of his.

(Explosion of hormones at the skin-to-skin contact.) Sherlock thought he had John's chest outlined quite well; he has not been lazy during their lazy mornings, after all, he has been carefully cataloguing John's anatomy and physiology. But feeling it through a shirt against his own chest or back, turns out to be something else than feeling it under his hands, lips and tongue. Sherlock's hair is once more firmly secured in John's grip; a very clever move on John's part, actually, because if he did not ground Sherlock this way, Sherlock is not sure he would be able to keep track of the directions.

John's stomach may be the most beautiful thing he has beheld. When he strokes his cheek along it, John's legs turn restlessly under him. He kisses the dip inside of John's hipbone, extracting a closed-mouthed moan from John, and he gently grips the waistband of John's pyjamas.

“John?” He looks up at John's thrown-back head.

John takes a shuddering breath through his nose and looks down at Sherlock. His lips are tightly pressed together (trying to prevent himself from making sounds). “Mm”, he manages.

“May I taste you?”

“Oh my God”, the words tumble over John's lips and he throws his head back again, clawing at Sherlock's scalp for a few seconds before being able to answer. “Yes”, he says, and his voice breaks at the end.

Sherlock swiftly moves the fabric out of the way.

(Smooth. Wet. Sweet. Warm.)

“Oh.”

Sherlock would have said the same, had he been able. But he cannot bring himself to break away even to properly moan, so he just makes a smothered sound in the back of his throat.

He knows instantly that he is good at this. He cannot resist any part of it, kissing and licking as if it will help the urgency in his own body.

“Oh”, John pants once more. “Sh- _Oh._ ”

(More sweet. More wet.)

“Shhh- shher- ah-”

Sherlock's answering whimper sounds pathetic this time and he takes John deeper, pressing himself to discover where his limit might go. He hopes there will be none.

“Shhh- Shhh- _Sherlock_ -”

Sherlock gasps, raising his head enough to look up at John. John lowers his chin to meet his eyes, raising his hips to meet Sherlock's mouth again. His eyes are darker than Sherlock has ever seen them, his jaw is slack, his forehead slightly creased.

Sherlock closes his eyes as he keeps going, and his chest is smiling. (John is watching with those hungry eyes. John said his name. John is fully aware that it is Sherlock doing this to him, it is _Sherlock_ stealing all coherency from John's voice.) Only wordless noise comes out of John now, turning louder, and Sherlock's jaw is starting to ache but that would never ever make him let go of John and sacrifice those sounds.

They are both becoming frantic and everything is wet and messy, and by the climax the proceedings are ungraceful at best. But John's voice sounds wonderful like this, unrestrained, blissful. Sherlock's muffled voice sounds desperate.

“Oh my God”, John is rambling (probably without noticing), “oh my God, oh my God.”

Sherlock feels John's body melt underneath him, his grip around the curls loosens, he quiets. Sherlock regretfully lets him go. He rests his forehead against John's hip, letting his own breathing calm down.

Eventually John's heavy hands wake up where they are still tangled in his hair, fingertips scraping Sherlock's scalp. “Sherlock”, he whispers.

“Hmm.” Sherlock closes his eyes over John's skin.

“Come up here.”

Sherlock slowly lifts his head, meeting John's gaze for a second before sliding back up on the bed. John is watching him without blinking, and Sherlock stares back at him intently, searching for signs of regret. He is so occupied by this that John's kiss comes as a surprise.

(John's lips are dry. The inside of his mouth is cold. Even softer than before.)

John's rough fingertips are brushing over the damp skin of Sherlock's back until it tingles. Sherlock tries to minimise their points of contact, but John brings them flush together, making it difficult for Sherlock to hide his body's idea of what should happen next.

John's hand lingers around his waist for a long time, briefly touching Sherlock's waistband before shying away. Next time he is bolder, dipping his fingers below it in the back, extracting an involuntary sigh from Sherlock. His hand settles around Sherlock's hip, a steady grip with a maddeningly stroking thumb.

“Do you want me to…?” he mumbles.

“It is really not necessary.”

A brief pause. The thumb keeps moving.

“But can I?”

All air leaves Sherlock's lungs in a rush. He wants to open his eyes to see John's expression, but all he manages to do is nod.

The cry escaping him when John touches him is one of surprise as much as of pleasure. He had not realised how significant it would be whether the hand belonged to himself or someone else. His eyes fly open and he stares into John's eyes, and they look back at him with a glint of danger.

“John, that feels good”, he says in a breathy voice, before his mouth falls wide open and his eyes fall shut.

“God, you're amazing”, John breathes. ( _One._ )

John's hand is unexpectedly determined. Sherlock's hands have become independent, moving around in search of something to hold on to. “ _John._ ”

“You're beautiful”, John mumbles, sounding astonished by this fact. “You're beautiful.” ( _Two in a row._ )

“John”, Sherlock whimpers. He feels his throat stretch, the back of his head dig into the pillow, his mouth gape, his heels dig into the mattress as his hips almost lift from it. “John, _yes_ -”

“ _Yes_ ”, John answers, “you're so beautiful-”

( _Three-_ )

Sherlock's back arches off the bed, his whole body flows and sings with bliss hereto unheard of, he hears himself scream, he hears John's rough voice say “Jesus Christ, you're gorgeous”.

He collapses back down on the bed, tucking his head in under John's chin. He discovers his hands are holding big chunks of sweaty sheets and he lets go, blindly reaching for John. John's hands are slowly, slowly stroking his back and neck. Sherlock relearns how to breathe, letting himself fall into John's beautiful respiration rhythm.

At first, he thinks he will never be able to move ever again. His body has turned into liquid. But the fierce sensation gradually fades, his pulse goes back to normal, his skin feels chilly under the sweat.

(Oh, right. He must have made a mess.)

He sits up, quickly scanning both of them, determining most of it landed on his own stomach.

“Where are you going?” John says, but Sherlock is already halfway to the bathroom. He closes the door behind him without answering.

***

When Sherlock re-enters the bedroom – after being gone far longer than he needed to – John is sitting up against the headboard. He has a sheet folded haphazardly around his hips (got rid of his pants, used them to wipe himself off), and his hands are clasped in front of his chest. He rests his chin on top of them, staring into thin air.

Sherlock stops halfway to the bed, tying the burgundy silk robe tighter around himself. “How are you?” His voice is a strange mix of formality and unusual consideration.

John turns his head to look at him. “How am I? I'm… God, Sherlock, you know something?”

“Probably.”

“I think I've wanted this since day one.”

He looks astounded in a rather adorable way. Sherlock manages not to smile.

“I know.”

John lowers his hands, letting them rest in his lap. “You _know_?”

“Of course. You flirted shamelessly with me at the Chinese restaurant after our first case.”

John swallows his reflexive comeback ( _I did not_ ), thinks for a moment and says: “In that case, you did too.”

“I don't believe that I ever denied it.”

“Then why didn't you-”

“I was unaware of the significance at that time.”

“When did you know?”

John's eyes follow him as he sits down on the mattress with his legs folded before him.

“When there was a female person in the way.”

There is a brief pause, and then: “Oh my God.” John stares at him, eyes wider than ever before. “ _Oh. My God._ ”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. John needs to stop saying those words, this is getting tedious. He is obviously having some sort of revelation; probably something Sherlock knew already, probably something-

“Sherlock, I'm in love with you.” John says it as if he realises it at the same time as the words leave his mouth, and Sherlock did know it, and still, still… “Sorry”, John adds, “didn't mean it to slip out like that, I just… what I felt for her, what I've felt for… it's not… this is… oh my God.”

“John, you are certainly not the most perceptive of people”, Sherlock scoffs.

John immediately falls into their playful jargon, and Sherlock loves him for it. “Oh, so you knew this as well, did you?”

“Of course – obvious, really, clear for anyone to discern. As ever, John, you see, but you do not observe. I suppose I'll even need to _tell_ you that I'm in love with you too.”

John's eyes change. Sherlock watches him in awe, trying to understand what happened, because this is new. John is not smiling, his mouth is relaxed and the lines around it are shallow. But his eyes glow as they do with smile number twenty-one.

“You might even need to tell me twice.”

Sherlock looks at him. Breathes. “I love you.”

John slowly blinks. One, two, three times. “Kiss me.”

Sherlock leans forward and closes his eyes, carefully touching the tip of John's nose with his own. He lets John's tender exhalations create electricity on his lips before he closes the final gap. He kisses John slowly, and soon John pulls back to breathe out another “Oh my God”.

“Not quite.”

“Oh, shut up, you git.”

John pulls back, waiting for Sherlock to open his eyes. When he does, John's eyes are still glowing. His familiar, remarkable hand comes up to rest against Sherlock's cheek, and the smile is spreading from his eyes across the rest of his face.

“Idiot”, he says, as if he finally understands what he means by that.

Sherlock chuckles, turns his head and puts a kiss in John's palm. “Breakfast?”

“Starving.”


	4. Epilogue

“Or maybe thrice.”

“John, come on. Just kiss me and I'll show you.”

“I would, but I feel weird. There must be something I'm missing.”

“John.”

“Sherlock. That's not something friends do, is it?

“You are quite right.”

“Then why do you want to do it? I seem to have forgotten.”

“Mercury.”

“What?”

“Venus. Earth. Mars.”

“Are you-”

“Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune. I feel I should also mention Pluto, although its status as a planet has been questioned and it is presently considered a dwarf planet.”

“When did you learn all that?”

“Months ago.”

“Why? Was there a case…?”

“No. I did it for you.”

“But you think the solar system doesn't matter.”

“I did it for you. Will you kiss me now?”

“Yes.”

[…]

“They all-” […] “go around-” […] “the sun.”

“Mmm.”

“And the moon-”

“… oh…”

“-goes around the Earth.”

“… you…”

“See?”

“Yeah.”

“It's always you, John.”

“Kiss me again, Sherlock.”

 

***

 

“Hello, I'm home!”

“ _Finally_. Sit there.”

“What?”

“I've been waiting for an eternity. Sit down and be quiet.”

“I need to put the groceries away, give me a sec.”

“God, you are unbelievable, John. You took a detour to get _groceries_ when I have something important to tell you! Your priorities are in a bizarre order.”

“I didn't know you were waiting for me. What do you want to tell me?”

“Oh for God's sake, surely you don't need me to repeat myself a _third_ time?”

“Fine, I'll sit.”

[…]

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, do try to use your modest skills of observation, John. I am tuning my violin – which I already did hours ago, mind you, but then you weren't here and now I have to redo it.”

“Thought you wanted to tell me something.”

“I do. But I have already demonstrated my solar-system-related knowledge, so the element of surprise is gone from that, significantly diminishing the effect. So here are some of the pieces I have composed for you. You might recognise them.”

[…]

“Sherlock-”

“Yes.”

“You wrote those for me?”

“As I said.”

“But I've heard you play them for months.”

“Yes.”

“So that's the urgent thing you wanted to tell me?”

“Obviously.”

“I love you too.”

“I know.”

 

***

 

“Sherlock.”

“Mh.”

“What's this? Hey, look up.”

“Mmmmh.”

“I was hoovering-”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I thought probably nobody had hoovered under your bed since we moved in. And then, um. I found this.”

“Oh.”

“What is this?”

“Really, John-”

“No, I know what it is, just… you did this?”

“It was your favourite. I don't like it when you're sad.”

“This must have taken you ages.”

“Mm, not _ages_ , no.”

“Why didn't you show me?”

“It is unusable. The glue is toxic. Forgot to take that into consideration.”

“This is just the sweetest thing.”

“Well. Consider it the declaration for the day.”

“You'll receive yours in kiss form then, if you don't mind.”

“Fine.”

 

***

 

_Ruining late. Be Holmes as soon as I xab xxx twee_

_You are not making sense. SH_

_YOU'RE cleverness – seduce it#_

_You dropped your phone. Again. This is getting ridiculous. SH_

_Tea._

_Come home immediately. SH_

_CANT_

_Oh for God's sake. SH_

[…]

“Sorry about that. The display is cracked. Couldn't see what I wrote.”

“Clearly.”

“I would've called, but I was with a patient. It was pretty hectic at the clinic, and then doctor Smith didn't show up so I had to stay a few hours more. Turns out she'd been in an accident, but she showed up eventually so it wasn't too-”

“Stop it. Look at the table.”

“What's this?”

“Surely you understand that if you open it, you will not have to ask me that question, John.”

“Yeah, yeah, Mister Has-To-Be-Rude-In-Order-To-Be-Nice.”

“This is not niceness. This is necessity.”

[…]

“Oh. This looks… kind of expensive. You didn't have to.”

“Obviously. I bought it for Christmas. Then I recognised that, well. It would have been something of a give-away.”

“Ha, well, I certainly would have been surprised, but you know. I've never been able to understand what goes on in your mind. Probably wouldn't have thought expensive phones were your declaration of eternal love.”

“Turn it over.”

[…]

_John Watson_

_Here, use mine._

[…]

“Oh…”

“Hrm, well.”

“Sherlock…”

“Do you… Do you remember?”

“Of course I do, love. Of course. And I remember the answer, too.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“I would have signed it off with the kisses too, but I didn't… know.”

“I can't believe you're this much of a romantic. I love you.”

“Oh stop it, I am no _romantic_. You needed a phone, I got you one, if you are going to get all sentimental about it you might never get those kisses.”

“Nope, sorry, won't take it back. I'm going to feel very sentimental every time I use this phone, and I'm going to forgive you for not adding the kisses in the engraving if you give them to me right now instead.”

“Hm, all right. But you will only get the three.”

“We'll see about that.”

 

***

 

“Sherlock. Er. I have something- something of yours. You might want it back.”

“A pillow case. Really.”

“Thought you might have been missing it.”

“Why would I have missed it?”

“Well, because it's yours.”

“Technically, we share all our pillow cases.”

“We didn't always, though.”

“Oh John, do get to the point.”

“Okay, this is not as silly as it'll sound. Before I first started sleeping in your bed, I was changing my bed sheets one day and accidentally picked this up. I went to get one of my own, but I forgot to return yours, and it smelled like you which was… nice, so it kind of… stayed in my bed.”

“… Stayed in your bed? For how long?”

“Well, eventually it slipped between the mattress and the wall, and I forgot it was there. But, well, during the months when we slept apart, it felt nice to have a piece of you with me in bed.”

“Then you didn't forget it.”

“Well. No. I… I only pretended to, I suppose.”

“And did you _pretend_ to forget to return it in the first place?”

“Hrm, yeah. Like I said. It smelled nice.”

“Then it _is_ as silly as it sounds.”

“Yes, alright? Yes. You did all those things for me before we got together. I just wanted to show you I did it too.”

“This is even more stupid than the things I did.”

“No, it's not.”

“A meaningless piece of fabric-”

“Hey, you kept that broken cup under your bed.”

“Did you come here to insult me or tell me you love me?”

“Both.”

“All right. Do go on.”

“I've been in love with you forever, you beautiful bastard.”

“How long must I wait for you to kiss me, then?”

“As long as it takes me to call you an idiot.” […] “Never longer, though.”

**Author's Note:**

> The amazing khorazir has made [fanart](https://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/171627914213/inspired-by-the-brilliant-what-friends-do-by) for this fic!  
> And daisydirtbag has kindly made a [playlist](http://8tracks.com/theboywonder/what-friends-do) to the story, which I'm listening to for inspiration while writing the sequel... (It will feature the same story from John's perspective, make sure you subscribe to me so you don't miss it!)


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